


Local Hero

by BasicBathsheba, breadofgod



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Baby you're a Pitch Man, English Premier League, F/M, M/M, Mummers United FC, Normal AU, Northern England, Pining!Simon, TW: Bovril, association football culture, footballer!baz, mill town, pub owner!simon, terrace chants, the dangers and delights the epic highs and lows the all-consuming beauty of footie podcasts, the one where we talk about gay culture and football, yoga is for communists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 56,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23045959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BasicBathsheba/pseuds/BasicBathsheba, https://archiveofourown.org/users/breadofgod/pseuds/breadofgod
Summary: There is nothing Simon Snow loves more in life than football. And there's really nothing in Baz Pitch's life other than football.Baz Pitch is the star player of Mummers United FC, a low tier club he's singled-handedly put on the maps, along with the tiny northern town of Watford-on-Mummers. Simon Snow is a footie fanatic, founder of the MumU supporter section, and owner of the Sun and Goat pub. He's built a living out of watching Baz play, and it doesn't even matter that they haven't spoken since they were kids. Simon knows, no matter what, Baz Pitch is going to be the greatest player England has ever seen.So why is Baz Pitch living in a middle terrace in the middle of nowhere, day drinking and doing (bad) yoga?
Relationships: Penelope Bunce/Shepard, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 1145
Kudos: 2709





	1. PROLOGUE: SON A BITCH, BASILTON PITCH

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends. We return! Please enjoy this fic, but be aware that it may not be updating super regularly. The fic is still being written, and it will update as we get through chapters.
> 
> This fic is very much a love letter to football, but please don't worry: if you don't follow football or soccer, you can still read, no problem! We won't be deep diving.
> 
> Huge thanks to @carryonsimoncarryonbaz for beta reading and also for helping out with some of the incredible chants within here. Baby, You're a Pitch Man is all hers. <3
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, and sorry for the long time away. It's good to be back.
> 
> xx- Ban & Bread

_BABY, YOU’RE A PITCH MAN: LOCAL PUB SUPPORTS LOCAL BOY_

By Shepard Clark

It's a rainy day in Watford-on-Mummers, Lancashire, and Simon Snow is getting ready for the World Cup.

Snow, 28 and owner of The Sun and Goat, goes through his game day prep without thinking twice. He moves his tables to make space on the main floor, he organizes his drink orders, he prepares his crisps and packets of table nuts. He doesn't have to decorate, though, because the pub stays in a perpetually festive mode. Scarves and banners line the walls, cut out newspaper articles dominate the bar area, and every surface and inch is a shrine to the game. 

"Some people go to church," says Snow with a sheepish smile. "In Watford-on-Mummers, we come for football."

And come they do.

The Sun and Goat is the unofficial-official home for the Mummers United supporter section. Lancashire’s tiny powerhouse of a team may be the nation’s underdog, but in Watford-on-Mummers, they’re giants.

Especially Baz Pitch, MumU's number 9 and breakout star.

"The way I see it, pretty much nothing good has ever come out of Watford," Snow says as he stacks crates in the alley behind The Goat. (Later that day, Snow will stand on those crates during the 87th minute of the game and whip his full house into a rousing chorus of _Son of A Bitch/Basilton Pitch_ , the Goat's terrace chant of choice and a Snow original.) "The only big claim to fame we have is Baz. I mean, local boy makes it that big? It'd be criminal if we didn't turn out to support him."

Pitch, who started his career playing for his local side, joined MumU's academy at 15 and got the call up three years later. The rest, they say, is history: after sitting in the bottom tier of the English Football League, Pitch led MumU through three of their best seasons in twenty years and helped the team break into the Premier League for the first time.

During Pitch’s rein, Mummers United Football Club has undergone a radical transformation from local underdog to national contender. MumU has slowly begun to upgrade facilities, allocate money for a women’s side, and has planned a large-scale renovation of their home field, The Cloisters, set to begin next year. The expansion project would take the turf—which hasn’t been touched since a staggering 1902—and increase seating to up to 25,000, putting The Cloisters on par with other lower-sitting teams.

It’s widely believed that money and success is purely because of Pitch.

Rumors are regularly flying about the big name teams courting the local legend, but in ten years, he’s never switched teams, an unusual career move for someone of his status. Fans chalk it up to hometown loyalty; he doesn’t want to stray far from his home village.

“Everyone says he’s from Mummers, but that’s not true,” Snow says, turning to point at a blown up school picture of Pitch and several other boys playing a pick-up game on the muddy village green. “He’s from Watford-on-Mummers. Went to school at the village primary right down the road with the rest of us.”

Though he’s loathe to admit it, Snow is one of the boys in the grainy photo behind the bar.

“That’s me, right there in the mud. Someone took this photo right after Baz pushed me into a puddle,” Snow says, pointing to a lump somewhere behind a nine-year-old Pitch.

But Snow hasn’t let the puddle incident scar his Pitch-enthusiasm. He started the hometown support section four years ago, just before Pitch's World Cup debut for the English National Team.

"Everyone watched his games, of course we did. But no one ever got together and said, you know, let's come support one of our own," Snow said. "When I took over the Goat four years ago, I knew that game days were great for business, and I've followed Baz's career since we were kids, so I figured, why not make it something more official?"

Snow can't stop smiling whenever he talks about Pitch, or football, or the cheering section that's come together to celebrate both. 

“It’s just beautiful. Everyone together, everyone happy, everybody getting on and supporting a local boy. It’s just what’s right. It’s loyalty, that’s all it is,” Snow says.

Due to the demand and popularity of match days at the pub, however, Snow hasn’t seen Pitch play in person in almost a decade.

“Well, if the boys are playing, I’m here at the pub,” he says with a shrug. “Someone’s got to keep the TV on for the folk who don’t have tickets. Not sure if I can even enjoy a game anymore if I’m not running around putting out fires.” He laughs, a booming, happy thing. 

Though Pitch has long since moved to be closer to the larger training facility in Mummers, his family remains in the tiny village.

“Oh, yes, we love the supporters,” says Daphne Grimm, Pitch’s step-mother. “We don’t go round very often—if Basil is playing at home, we always have tickets to see him play at The Cloisters—but sometimes on weekends we’ll pop in and say hello to everyone.”

Mrs. Grimm, her husband, and their four other children chose to go to Italy to support Pitch during his second World Cup showing, though some of the family stayed behind.

“It’s actually more fun to watch the games at The Goat,” says Pitch’s cousin, Dev Grimm, 27. “The place goes mad. I can’t buy a drink to save my life, and I always like hearing what new poem Snow’s come up with each week.”

“Simon is frustratingly good at coming up with chants,” says Penelope Bunce, 29. Bunce, a London native, relocated to the area two years ago to teach at the local primary. Though she takes no credit for composing any of the more than fifteen MumU songs that Snow has championed, she does help with the editing process.

“Sometimes Simon will go, ‘I’ve got a new idea for a song,’ and I’ll have to say ‘no, Simon, we cannot rhyme Baz with spaz,’ or ‘perhaps ‘We Didn’t Start The Fire’ is too complicated for a terrace chant.’ I just help him trim his ideas down,” Bunce says.

“The only one I have never touched is ‘Baby, You’re A Pitch Man.’”

 _Baby, You’re A Pitch Man_ is more tradition than chant. After every winning MumU game, Snow hooks up the grainy speakers in the corner of the pub and blares that national favorite, _Baby, You’re A Rich Man_ by the Beatles. Snow has barely touched the words: the crowd just shouts the version they prefer.

“Oh, Pitch Man is a classic,” Grimm agrees. It’s seventy minutes into the World Cup Match, England is ahead, Pitch has scored one of the leading goals, and Grimm has just bought the house a round. “Even Baz likes it. He swears he doesn’t, but sometimes you’ll catch him humming it.”

“We’ve started doing it at the games,” explains Niall Kelly, 28 and another childhood friend of Pitch’s. “Even when we lose. Everyone hates the MumU fans because we just won’t shut up. We finish one song and go onto the next.”

“His food is too expensive, but Snow has given us some excellent songs,” Grimm agrees. “He’s really done a hell of a lot for the boys.”

The sentiment is echoed throughout the day, by almost every fan packed inside the Goat to watch the match.

“Simon is the heart and soul of Mummers United,” Bunce says. “I don’t even like football, not really, but what Simon has built here? It’s like a family. It’s really impressive.”

Pitch has never visited the Goat himself, but he’s aware of it, according to his step-mother.

“My son has worked hard and is proud to put our home on the map,” Mrs. Grimm says. “And he knows he couldn’t have done it without the support of the fans. He values all of them.”

Whether he gets recognition or not, though, Snow isn’t too worried. He plans to keep hosting the supporters section for as long as he can.

“Football isn’t just about one bloke or another. It’s about the team. It’s about the family,” Snow says. “But, yeah,” he admits, after some encouraging, “Baz Pitch is pretty brilliant.”


	2. OFFSIDES

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit weather, breaking news and Instagram stalking. Simon is a Fiat 500 girl, and the world is a water closet. Come on you boys in green.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello! Thank you everyone for the really staggeringly lovely response we got from the first chapter. You're all amazing! One shitty chapter and it's almost 900 clicks? You all are mad. Absolutely bonkers. We're completely stunned.
> 
> A huge thank you to @krisrix for his JAWDROPPING art. Check it out here --> https://bit.ly/2ItmE0n
> 
> As mentioned, this fic is still being written. It's probably going to be a long one, because we don't know how to self-censor. Feel free to throw a click to the subscribe and check back in when its done, if you like to read all at once.
> 
> xx - Ban & Bread

**SIMON**

November is very good for the whole pub business thing.

I reckon it’s because it’s colder. Gets dark earlier and everything is crap outside, so people want to go somewhere warm and bright and loud.

Doesn’t help that Watford-on-Mummers is proper miserable this time of year. Everything is grey and the old mill housing blocks look smudgy, and the whole town looks even emptier. Dirtier. Like the Industrial Revolution just rolled through yesterday and chewed us up and spit us out, covered in smog and dust.

We learnt about that in school. Literally spent one day covering the whole history of the area, and all of it can be summed up as: Mummers used to be a production hub, now it’s not, and now us and all the other villages around it have big, empty mills and shit weather to remember it by.

Every time the door to the Goat blows open, it makes me shiver.

“‘Lo Simon,” Gareth says, shuffling in and unwrapping his scarf. He drops it on the stool next to him as he sits down, and I think about asking if I can borrow it, because I’m so bloody cold. Wouldn’t, though. It’s red. Purple and green only for me.

“Alright,” I say, turning and preparing the ale that he always orders. I see Gareth every day, and every day his drink is the same. I give him ten years before he joins the group of old blokes who show up at opening every day and stay through till tea.

“So, I suppose you’ve heard the news,” Gareth says, slumping against the counter and grinning at me. “Are you bricking yourself?”

“Not a clue, mate.” I put his drink in front of him. “What news?”

Gareth lights up like a fucking sparkler. It means he’s got gossip. He somehow _always_ has gossip. I wish I was someone who had gossip.

“Just ran into Dev Grimm,” he says, pitching his voice louder. “He was going round with an estate agent.”

“Er, good for Dev?” A few people look over, but honestly, I don’t know what Gareth’s on about. No one cares about Dev. Six pints in he can be good fun, but he’s not exactly the talk of the town. And he’s kind of a dick.

“He’s looking into a short-term let in the village,” Gareth continues.

“Here, I thought he was moving to London?” Rhys calls from a table near the fireplace.

“Nah, that’s all talk,” someone calls back. “Dev’s never leaving.”

“I thought he had that girl—what was her name?”

“Angie?”

“Nah,” another person says, walking out of the bog, “I thought her name was Agnes?”

“I’m not talking about Dev Grimm,” Gareth barks, shaking his head.

“Could have fooled me,” I say. Someone in the corner laughs.

“I just ran _into_ Dev while he was looking into a short term let, because his cousin is coming home for a few months,” Gareth says, tapping his knuckles against the bar. He’s got a real smug expression on his face. “Baz is taking a leave from MumU.”

Not sure if it’s wind or shock, but something cold goes down my spine as the world slows down.

“No, he’s not.” The words get punched out of me. “We would have heard. Why would he do that? Do you think he’s injured?”

“I heard there’s something going on with the family,” Rhys says. “Maybe his other mum’s gonna go?”

“Hush, I just saw Mrs. Grimm two days ago,” Keris chides.

“If Baz were leaving MumU, we would know,” I insist, shaking my head. “Someone would have told us. He just played yesterday.”

“I’m telling you!” Gareth exclaims. “I’m telling you now!”

“But why would Baz leave? Do you think he’s signing somewhere else?”

“If he were signing somewhere else, I don’t think he’d be moving back near his parents,” Keris says, moving to the bar. “It’s probably just a leave of absence. I’m sure he’s not leaving the team.”

“Yeah, don’t worry,” Rhys agrees, his voice soft and comforting. “He wouldn’t do that.”

When I look up, there’s about six people crowded round the bar, giving me soft looks. It takes me a tick to realise they’re all trying to comfort me. Why are they trying to comfort me? It’s not like someone’s dying. My favourite player is just leaving the team. Everyone will be upset. Not just me.

I dunno why they’re all looking at me like that.

And it’s not like we _know._ We won’t know until Baz says something. He’s dead private like that—it’s impossible to know what he’s up to.

“Here, come on,” I say, waving my towel and turning back to pour Rhys a pint. He didn’t order it, but I need to do something with my hands. “Stop fussing over me.”

“Simon, you know him, you know he wouldn’t leave,” Keris soothes. I can feel my ears flame up.

I _don’t_ know him. I dunno why everyone thinks I do. I haven’t spoken to him since I was fifteen, and even then, we barely knew each other. We were just classmates. He didn’t look twice at me.

It’s not like with Dev and Niall. _They_ know him. They’re still friends with him. I see them in pictures, sometimes, when the three of them are in London. They’ll pop up in snaps or on Twitter. Baz always posts them on his Instagram.

I’m just a pub owner. I’m not his friend.

I _really_ wish people would stop looking at me like someone has just died.

“Look, until Baz or MumU says something, it’s a load of bull,” I say, passing Rhys his pint. “There’s no way he’s leaving the team.”

“I’m telling you what Dev said—” Gareth starts.

“Dev is a dick, so I don’t care,” I interrupt. My hands feel weirdly sticky, and my pulse is fast. I glare at Gareth and point at his scarf. “And you know the rules. No red in this pub.”

“But—”

“AND WE’LL ALL GO TOGETHER, COME ON YOU BOYS IN GREEN, LET’S GET PURPLE IN THE CLOISTERS,” I start shouting, drowning out Gareth’s argument. _Purple Cloisters_ (set to the tune of _Purple Heather_ ) is definitely not the best chant I’ve got, but it’s the only one with the colours in it.

“SO LET’S GO, MUMMERS, GO,” Rhys joins in.

“I swear, he told me—” Gareth starts, but it’s useless. More people are joining and we’re drowning him out.

“SO LET’S GO, MUMMERS, GO.”

“Feck all you all,” Gareth mutters, downing his drink.

I turn away from the counter and try not to feel sick.

***

When I get home, Davey is waiting for me at the door.

“I know, I know,” I say, flicking on the light and throwing my keys in the bowl. “I’m sorry.”

He just keeps staring at me, giving me that _look_ , the really judgey one that lets me know how much I’ve disappointed him. It’s like no matter what I do, nothing’s good enough. One day, though. One day he’ll be pleased to see me.

“You want dinner?” I ask, shrugging off my coat. He blinks. He’s not natural.

“You want a walk?”

He shoots up from his sit and nearly bowls me over, standing on his hind legs and practically pushing me toward the door.

“Alright, alright,” I say, reaching for his lead, “hold on, hold on.”

The fucking dog nearly yanks my arm off once we’re out of the house, tearing off around the corner and up the hill to follow his favourite path toward the village green. I let him lead, checking out as I pull my mobile from my pocket.

 **PB:** _Did you hear the news?_

 **SS:** about Baz? Yeah

 **SS:** fucking weird

 **PB:** _Oh, I meant about how that journalist came back. What about Baz?_

 **SS:** wait what journalist

 **PB:** _The annoying one, the one who did the feature on you last summer. The American._

 **SS:** he came back??

 **PB:** _Yeah, he stopped by the school today to ask for my number._

 **SS:** I bet it’s about Baz.

 **PB:** _I sort of thought it was about a date, but okay. Yup. I’m sure it’s about Baz._

 **PB:** _Go ahead then, tell me about Baz._

 **SS:** he’s leaving MumU

 **PB:** _????????????!!!!!!!!!_

 **PB:** _Oh, Simon, I’m sorry._

 **SS:** why does everyone keep saying that?

 **PB:** _What club is he going to?_

Davey lunges after a rabbit and I nearly drop my mobile and step into a ditch.

“Dave, c’mon,” I mutter, yanking him back. “Please just listen to me for once, c’mon boy.”

He whines and strains against his lead, and I shove my phone back in my pocket so I can use both hands. I can’t let him get loose again. He goes barrelling off on his own and makes all kind of ruckus and upsets everything.

Last time I let him off the lead he hauled off and made a clear beeline to the Grimms’ house, tore up Mrs. Grimm’s flower bed and left a big old dump in front of Mr. Grimm’s car. The man himself called me, absolutely livid. It’s the only time I’ve ever spoken to Mr. Grimm, and it was awful. He was such a dick. I tried to explain that, you know, Davey’s a _dog_ and the world is his water closet, but.

“Dave, c’mon, please,” I say, tugging on the lead again. I kind of feel like crap and I don’t want to fight with him today.

Davey lets me drag him back onto the path, and then, nice as you please, starts trotting along again, a perfectly behaved dog. See? He’s not that bad.

We walk—way more calmly—through the village before circling back to our street and through the garden to my front door. Just stepping inside makes me feel better. This house is brill—it was my aunt Ebb’s, same as the pub, and the dog—and it’s the only home I’ve ever known, really. 

I feed Davey and then myself and curl up on the sofa to flick through the channels, but nothing’s on. Shouldn’t be surprised. After work is always like this: too keyed up to sleep, but off too late to go out. So I just sit and flip through shit late night tv.

Sometimes I listen to that podcast, the one by the American journalist who wrote the article last summer. It’s actually pretty funny—he doesn’t seem to know shit about football and he spends the whole podcast just asking people weird questions like he’s trying to figure it out. I've no idea how he got a job covering football.

I wonder if he’s really here to ask Penny out. That could be fun. If they date, I could go on his podcast and finally explain what the offsides rule is, because I don't think he's ever gonna get it on his own.

Like Penny can tell what I’m thinking, my mobile buzzes again.

 **PB:** _I can’t find anything about a transfer?_

 **SS:** no word yet

 **SS:** gareth says dev says baz is buying a house in the village

 **PB:** _......_

 **PB:** _Simon. That doesn’t mean he’s leaving the team. He could just be buying a house near his parents._

 **SS:** but he lives in Mummers!

 **PB:** _Footballers can definitely own more than one house._

 **SS:** gareth says dev says Baz is taking a leave

 **PB:** _Dev is kind of a dick._

 **PB:** _So is Gareth._

 **PB:** _Maybe he’s sick? Or taking some personal time? A sabbatical to focus on his life?_

I snort and flip over to Instagram, just to see if Baz has posted anything lately. I used to feel weird following his account. Since we knew each other, kind of. Felt a bit like stalking. But I figure, he’s famous. He’s mega. There’s nothing wrong with seeing what he’s up to. Loads of people follow their favourite players. What’s the difference between me and the Fiat 500 girls who all like every photo he uploads?

Actually that’s a shit comparison, I shouldn’t ask that question.

His Instagram doesn’t have any new posts, but he has updated his story, so I click on it.

Just him at The Cloisters, kicking a ball around. Someone’s filmed him running up and shooting in a clean screamer. He turns to the camera, stares down the lense cool as fucking anything, dark hair and grey eyes, and then bows.

“Shall I do it blindfolded?” he asks the camera. There’s a woman’s laughter, high and sharp, just before the video cuts off.

He’s always like that. Cool. Collected. Ferocious on the pitch, putting on a show but staying so focused. Sometimes he’s so tuned in that he comes off as a dick, but that’s only because he cares so much about the game. I get that. 

**SS:** I doubt it’s time off to “focus on his life” pen

 **SS:** football is his life


	3. HOWLER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Communist yoga, unhappy middle-aged men, cute neighbours and feet, both tiny and weapon-like. Perhaps this was a tactical error.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back! You know the drill: we're posting a chapter as soon as we write a new one. Thank you to everyone reading along, we're absolutely loving the response and we actually finally did an outline for this story so we could estimate how long we're gonna take it.
> 
> In case you didn't have enough playlists cluttering your feed, feel free to check out the official Mummers United FC playlist, [**casuals and anthems.**](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7eN5urt3480HkIfvG4fHhN?si=9QWbNQMLSgmzRGSvW4Vpcg)
> 
> Much love,
> 
> xx Ban & Bread

**BAZ**

“You could have just hired someone, you know, instead of breaking my back.” Wellbelove drops a box full of my cookery in the middle of my new kitchen and huffs, straightening up to brush her fringe off her face. “There are these things called mover services.”

“I did hire someone,” I say, toying with the window. There’s a draught coming in around the edges, even though it seems to be closed tight. “I hired you.”

“Hire implies I’m being paid,” she pouts. “Hire implies I agreed to do this.”

The kitchen is very small. Not that I cook that much—not that I really know _how_ to cook. But still. This is practically a bedsit. I should never have let Dev do this for me. I should have just risked it and done the goofy baseball cap and glasses disguise. Or asked Daphne.

I should have asked Daphne.

“You did agree,” I tell Wellbelove, pushing away the thought of my house in Mummers.

“When?”

“Last weekend, when we were sitting on the floor, drunk out of our minds, and you said you’d do anything ‘darling boy’ to help me.” 

This house only has one bedroom. I suppose I did request something small, something temporary, but. It’s a middle terrace in the middle of the village.

“I meant, like, if you needed a body hid, or wanted to get drunk again, or needed some healing crystals,” Wellbelove says, shoving a box out of the way to hike herself up onto my tiny counter. “Not moving in the middle of the night. When you pick a girl up at eight p.m., it’s usually for drinks, not hauling boxes to the middle of nowhere.”

“It’s not like Mummers is a thriving metropolis of class,” I mutter, opening doors. I didn’t see a water closet on this level, and I’m suspecting I may not have a washer. “And anyway, I’m barely thirty minutes away.”

Dev didn’t tell me who owns this house, just said the owner had moved and was willing to rent it to me for a month. Judging from the window dressings and the smell, however, I’m going to suspect that it belongs to a deeply unhappy middle-aged man.

“I don’t see why you didn’t just move back in with your parents,” Wellbelove says. She swings her long, tanned legs, kicking my lower cabinets with her heels. I step back a bit to avoid getting kicked. (I’ve run too many drills with her and watched too many of the MumU Women’s games to underestimate the damage those feet can do. They’re like weapons.)

“Because I’m an adult man, and we’d kill each other.” I think the washer may be under Wellbelove’s foot. Or maybe that’s the fridge?

“Then why _Watford-on-Mummers_?” she moans. “If you wanted to get away, why not go to London? Or take two weeks in Ibiza. Why move three bus stops down the road?”

It is indeed the fridge that she’s kicking, which means this house does not have a full size. Lovely.

“I’ve told you,” I say, leaving the kitchen and walking back through the den to get the last of the boxes. She follows, like I assumed she would. “I’m doing a trial run of a different life. I need to be away from Mummers, but I need no one to know.”

“Thus sending your cousin to pick out a place for you to play house?”

“Exactly.” I lift a box and hand it to her, then get a lighter one for myself. “And thus no movers. If anyone caught me moving it would be in the papers and then tomorrow we’d wake up with something ridiculous like BAZ PITCH LEAVES MUMMERS, SIGNS 10 MILLION CONTRACT WITH CHELSEA.”

“Poor you,” Wellbelove mutters.

“The _point_ ,” I continue, ignoring her, “is that they will literally make up rumours and run anything, and management was extremely clear that we don’t want rumours about me leaving.”

“But you _are_ —”

“ _That_ is to be determined,” I snap, putting my box on top of hers. “Top of the stairs. There’s only one bedroom.”

“I do not like being your friend,” she growls, stomping up the stairs anyway. “You should have asked your teammates.”

“Consider it strength training!” I shout back.

Alone in the den, I look around my new home and sigh. I’m hiding. I’m hiding in Watford-on-Mummers, a village I swore I’d never come back to, fifteen minutes down the road from my parents. I have a lovely house in Mummers. I could rent a flat in London. I could get on the phone tomorrow and be in Manchester by evening. Or Liverpool. Or Wolverhampton.

I could be anywhere but Watford-on-Mummers, a nowhere village in a parish with a population under three thousand.

There was part of me that thought that if I came back here, maybe it would help. Return to my roots. Lay low and lick my wounds in bucolic Lancashire, where I could clear my head and try to figure things out. Make pro and con lists somewhere new.

But I forgot that this village is only moderately less depressing than Mummers, and is just as empty and grey in the winter as anywhere else on this godforsaken island.

“You’ve got a great view up here, at least,” Wellbelove calls, her voice floating down the stairs. “And there _are_ two bedrooms.”

“That second bedroom is a closet,” I shout back.

“I’m not moving any more boxes, by the way. I’ve fallen on your bed and I’m not leaving. You have to make me breakfast tomorrow.”

With a sigh I take off my shoes, put them near my new door, and walk upstairs. The ceilings are at a slant and I have to duck to get into the master bedroom, where there are even more slanted ceilings. But at least there’s a huge window built into the slope, just across from my bed. In the dark it’s hard to see, but I suppose in the sunlight I could see clear across the village.

“You’re not waking me up at six a.m. so you can get to practise on time,” I say, moving to my suitcase to pull out my pyjamas and toiletries.

“I’m not going to practise,” Wellbelove says, kicking one shoe off and then shaking her foot until the other flies across the room and nearly hits me in the face. “I called out to help you move.”

The bath is even smaller than I had mentally prepared myself for, and has yet another slanted ceiling. I have to bend in double just to brush my teeth.

This was a terrible idea. A really, truly, terrible idea.

When I finish getting dressed and head back to my bedroom, Wellbelove is gone.

I shouldn’t be surprised. She’s fickle and flighty and doesn’t care a lick for my whims, but still. I would never have said it, because it would embarrass us both, but I was glad she was going to stay. I hate the first night in new places. I should be used to it, after years on the road and being in and out of hotels, but still.

Something about this feels different.

Pulling out my sheets, I make up the bed quickly then grab my book and settle in. The room is in boxes, not put together, and it’s making me anxious. Maybe I should just stay up and get everything unpacked. It’s not like I have anything to do tomorrow. I could—

The downstairs door slams, and then there’s footsteps on the stairs.

“You have a very cute neighbour,” Wellbelove says, throwing herself to the ground and arranging her legs into her opening yoga position. She’s in an oversized Mummers United jumper that she has to have stolen from one of my boxes.

“How did you meet my neighbour?” I lean over to adjust my sheets and make the mistake of catching sight of the carpet. It’s hideous. It’s horrifying. I can’t even look at how beige it is. 

“Figured you wouldn’t have packed coffee, went next door to see if we could borrow some for tomorrow,” Wellbelove says, stretching sideways. “I ran into him as he was coming back from a walk. Very cute. Brown and white, tiny little feet.”

“Are we talking about a man or a dog?”

Wellbelove frowns and stretches to the other side. “A dog, obviously. He’s a setter. He has a MumU collar and a matching lead in purple and green.”

“Brilliant,” I mutter, collapsing back onto my pillows as Wellbelove contorts herself into some effortlessly perfect position. Just what I need, to live next door to a fan. “He’s going to recognise me immediately.”

“Well, he’s a dog, so I doubt he follows football.”

“I meant his owner. He’s going to recognise me and call up the tabloids and everyone will know I’ve moved to a middle terrace in the middle of nowhere.”

“Uh, I don’t think hiding in your own neighbourhood is going to exactly help you keep a low profile. Everyone knows you.” Wellbelove stands and positions her hands above her head and pulls up her knee. “And anyway, wasn’t that the point? You’re staying here because no one will find it odd that you’re around?”

“Yes. No.” I turn and punch a pillow. “I don’t know.”

“Not to be mean,” Wellbelove says, shifting into a pose that makes her look like a swan, “but I don’t get this. The whole, you know, plot-i-ness of it. Are you really going to skip this weekend’s game?”

Not just this weekend.

“Plotiness?” I ask instead.

“Yeah. This is a plot. You’re plotting.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Wellbelove shifts legs and glares at me.

“Why not just acknowledge that you’re taking time off to—”

“Do you _have_ to do yoga in my bedroom?” I snarl, pulling my covers up. “This room is for sleeping, not weird new-age dance routines.”

“You should do yoga with me. Maybe it would fix your life. Then you wouldn’t have to run away from your problems.”

“I’m not running away, and yoga is for communists and men who don’t wear shoes.”

Wellbelove finishes saluting her mythical tree gods or whatever and turns to stare at me.

“Baz.”

“Either come to bed, Wellbelove, or shut up.”

“It’s a shame you’re gay,” she says, pulling back my covers and slipping in next to me. “Women love being spoken to like that.”

“If you stop trying to talk to me about my life I will take you to a booze brunch.”

“Sold,” she says, turning over to yawn prettily in my face. “By the way, your neighbour was very cute.”

“I don’t want a dog.”

“Not the dog,” she says, poking me with her cold toes. “The owner. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

“Surprises are never pleasant.”

Wellbelove reaches out and puts her hand over my face. She has a small hand, so really it’s just over my nose.

“Baz?” Her voice is sleepy.

“What?”

“Shut up.” She smushes my nose. “We’re gonna get you through this.”

It’s kind of her. Really kind of her. She’s watched while I single-handedly destroy my legacy, my team, my life and my sanity, and has said nothing. 

But the indignity of having my nose smushed while she talks about my emotional state is a step too far.

Rolling over, I jerk the covers up and off of Wellbelove and kick her out of my bed.

“Dick!” she shouts from the floor.

I wrap myself in my blankets and pride and try to go to sleep.


	4. MAN ON

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swimfans, stranger pie, wind-induced weepies, and wanking and sobbing. We're not supposed to talk about it. #COYBIGAP

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello! Thank you everyone for the reads and the comments. You're amazing and we love you so much. In case you missed it, be sure to follow the official Mummers United FC Spotify playlist, **  
> [casuals and anthems](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7eN5urt3480HkIfvG4fHhN?si=9QWbNQMLSgmzRGSvW4Vpcg).  
>  **
> 
> Much love,
> 
> Ban & Bread (Bran? Bad? Brad?)
> 
> xx- Brad

**SIMON**

“Sorry, really, I’m so sorry—” I say, tugging Davey away from Mrs. Kelly. He’s leaping like mad, trying to get at her fur-lined purse. I tried to explain that he thinks it’s a squirrel, he’s not like some avid anti-fur campaigner from PETA or something, but she doesn’t care.

“Davey, ge’off,” I grunt, putting both hands on his lead and dragging him away from the village green. “Sorry, Mrs. Kelly! Come round the Goat later, yeah? Free pint on me!”

“That dog is a menace!” she shouts back.

“Yeah, yeah, he’s a real character!” I call, dragging my—now totally well behaved—dog back toward my house.

“You know, we’re meant to be popular round here,” I tell him as we trudge up the hill. “We’re friendly faces. People trust us. We’ve got a civic responsibility.”

Davey stops to piss on a bush.

“Yeah, fair enough,” I say with a sigh. “C’mon.”

It’s frigid, because for some reason November this year has decided to be particularly shit, and I pull my MumU scarf closer as the wind whips at me. Rounding the corner, it nearly blows me back before I can get up to my walk. I’m going to have to get the fire going especially high today, even if Gareth will bitch about how it makes him sweaty. I bet I’ll do a decent business, if I make the Goat warm enough. That was Ebb’s trick—she said no one ever wants to drink in a cold pub.

She was always full of those kinds of things. Little quips and suggestions. Had advice for everything. 

_“Find what ye love, Simon, and throw yer heart into it.”_

_“Yer always where yer meant to be, duck.”_

_“Football and shivers are God’s green gifts to a pub.”_

Times like this, in the winter when its cold and there’s a game coming up, I miss her more than anything. Still throbs a bit, some place in my chest, next to my lungs, like I’ve just run a full match and left my breath behind me.

She’d have told me to cry it out. Reckon that’s the only advice of hers I never took.

I sniffle—on account of the cold, mind, not because I’m getting weepy—and trudge forward and try not to wonder what Ebb would have to say about the whole Baz Pitch business. She’d have made fun of me, probably. Always said that Baz ran faster than his sense. I always thought that was bullshit.

Digging in my pocket for my keys, I look up as we round the corner, and then nearly drop Davey’s lead.

Standing on the stoop of the house next to mine, juggling two shopping bags perched on his hip as he digs for his keys, is Baz Pitch.

Baz Pitch.

Baz Pitch lives next door to me.

Baz Pitch lives at number 3 Tower Terrace.

Tightening Davey’s lead, I turn around and fucking bolt.

Davey’s a man of action so he loves the sudden change in direction and he starts trotting, pulling me along into a full on jog as we tear down the lane, around the village green, down the side streets and across the village until we’re outside of the local primary.

Pushing through the double doors, I jog down the hall until I hit Penny’s classroom, and Davey and I burst in.

Penny and all the kids turn to stare at us.

“Class, say hello to Mr. Simon,” she says, furrowing her brows behind her glasses.

“Hello Mr. Simon,” they sing-song back at me. I drop Davey’s lead and let him loose, and suddenly a billion ten year olds are on top of him, completely ignoring his nervous looks as they back him into the corner. Davey doesn’t love kids. I should probably not have let him loose.

“Simon, mind telling me why you barged into my class?” Penny hisses, grabbing my elbow and pulling me into the corner to speak.

“He’s moved next door to me.”

“Who?”

“Baz. Baz Pitch.” I drag my hand through my hair. “Penny, why has he moved next door to me?”

She frowns. “You don’t seem very excited.”

“Of course I’m not excited!” I hiss. “Premier League players don’t move into a middle terrace in Watford-on-Mummers! He’s clearly quit the team! Or he’s going into hiding, or—something is _up_ , Penny!”

“Maybe he just wanted to—” she trails off and shakes her head. “No, okay, yeah, for once I’m with you, this is weird.”

“I _told_ you!” I exclaim, getting more worked up than I meant to. “God, and it’s even weirder. The other night this girl comes over, right, to borrow coffee? Says she’s with the new neighbour.”

“Okay?”

“So I didn’t think anything of it then, but Pen _,_ she stayed over. Has to be his girlfriend, right? He moved here with his _girlfriend_.”

Penny gives me a flat look. She doesn’t get it. Baz has never, ever, had a public girlfriend, and here she is shacking up with him. This thing keeps getting weirder and weirder.

“I feel like we’ve moved off the subject at hand,” Penny says.

“Oh. Right.” I lean in. “Baz has, like, millions. Why _Tower Terrace_? Baz is—”

“My mum said we’re not allowed to talk about that,” says a voice at my elbow. Penny and I look down to see a stocky, square-faced kid glaring at us. One of the younger Grimm kids, I think. Merlin or Mangus or something. “She says it’s rude and if we talk about it, Basil won’t let me go to London to meet Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh, thank you, Magnus,” Penny says, nodding. Magnus. Christ, these people can name ‘em. “We will be sure to listen to your Mum.”

“I have to meet Sherlock Holmes,” Magnus says, very seriously. “He’s the only one whose going to get it.”

“Get what, mate?”

Penny nearly kicks me.

“Magnus, Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character, remember?” she says. “We read about him earlier this year. He’s not real.”

“Mum says that too.”

“What do you need Sherlock’s help with, mate?” I ask, bending down to get closer to his level. “I’m not a world-class detective, but I love a mystery. Maybe I can help?” I smile at him, hoping it’ll help. I like kids. We get on.

Magnus Grimm looks at me like I’m a pile of shit.

“I’m not allowed to talk about it,” he says, looking like I’m a world-class idiot, before turning to Penny. “Also, Ms. Bunce, I’m allergic to dogs.”

Penny closes her eyes for a split second and I can see her sighing internally.

“Alright, why don’t you go over there, then, and Mr. Simon and his dog will be on their way?” She looks at me, and it’s real fucking withering. “Right away.”

“But Pen—”

“You heard Magnus,” she whispers, giving me a real stunner of a look. “We’re _not allowed to talk about it_.”

“But—”

“Out, Simon! Take your dog and go to work, like the rest of us.”

“But—”

“You are a clever man,” she says, picking up Davey’s lead and placing it firmly in my hands. “I have every confidence you can crack this.”

Dejected and thoroughly put in place, I take Davey (who looks a bit glad for an escape) and head out of the school. I pass Keris on my way out, and she waves from the front office.

“‘Lo, Simon! Did you and Davey come for show and tell?”

I snort and drag Davey over. “More like a tell. Say, Keris, do you know anything about this Baz Pitch thing?”

Her smile freezes. “What Baz Pitch thing?”

Looking around, I lean in against the clear plastic divider that separates her from the rest of the school lobby. “He’s my neighbour.”

“Really?” 

I nod. “Sure as anything. Saw him standing there with his shopping, trying to open his door.”

“Well did you help?”

I frown.

“Why would I help?”

“Because that’s what a good neighbour does,” Keris says, looking at me like I’m mad. Why is everyone looking at me like this today? I am not the mad one! I’m not the EPL player who has moved into a middle terrace! “You help out, you take round a pie or something.”

Keris is a good sort, but sometimes she’s so American it confuses me.

“Why would you want a stranger to bring you a pie?” I ask. “Who eats a stranger’s pie?”

“Simon, you literally run a pub! People pay to eat your stranger pie.” She smiles. “I just meant, you should try something friendly.”

“Friendly,” I say, tapping the plastic. “Right. Nah, sounds like work. Cheers, Ker. Pop in later, yeah?”

**BAZ**

Wellbelove does not even remotely appreciate how absurdly awful this entire situation is.

“You need to loosen your back,” she says, shoving her elbow into my spine while jerking my shoulder back. “Right. Now breathe.”

“He’s not just a fan, he’s _the fan_ ,” I say, wobbling a bit. Wellbelove elbows me again.

“So? I just don’t get it. He didn’t approach you, you said he ran away.”

“Probably to alert the press and call up every tabloid in England. By tomorrow he’ll be a millionaire, selling stories like ‘look what’s inside Baz Pitch’s bin bag’ and ‘I LIVE NEXT DOOR TO BAZ PITCH. YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT I HEARD AT TWO A.M.’” I push Wellbelove away and drop my arms.

“Have you been up late again wanking and sobbing or something?” She huffs her fringe out her face and puts her hands on her hips. “And anyway, ignoring that, you’re terrible at this.”

“Because yoga is stupid and has absolutely no practical application other than making me feel like an idiot,” I step back and pull my hair down, feeling extremely foolish for having agreed to this in the first place. I don’t know what I was thinking, trying yoga with her. I’ve never been a yoga person. I considered it, once, because King Dickhead liked it and said it was good for self-control, but ultimately everything he said was lies and bullshit, and I’m not sure why I’m here now, trying something that—

Well. Yoga isn’t going to magically sort out my priorities in life, make me happy, and beat back the creeping deadness inside. Yoga isn’t going to renegotiate my entire football future for me.

(Fiona does that.)

“Fine,” Wellbelove snaps, throwing her hands up and stalking to the other side of my living room. “Fine. Be this way. I’m hungry. Is there food in?”

There isn’t food in, no, because when I drove all the way into Mummers to do my shopping, I got paranoid that someone had taken a photo of me with their mobile, and I only ended up buying washing liquid, several boxes of tea and a crossword.

Wellbelove sits bolt upright.

“Let’s go to Simon’s pub.”

“ _No_ ,” I say, shooting across the room. “No. Let’s drive into Mummers.”

“No, I want to go to the pub,” she says, standing and reaching for her boots. “I want to see the Baz shrine.”

“It’s not a shrine, Wellbelove, settle down. And we’re not going there. That’s a terrible idea. That’s just advertising that I’m in the area, and, and it’s just—”

“Just best to get it over with,” she says, her voice flat, her face absolutely unbudging. She pushes me toward the door. “I’ll be there for support. I want to see this.”

“Why?”

“Because your weird little depression pity-fest hideout has been boring, honestly, and I want to see this disaster.”

I pause, feeling rather like Wellbelove has just stuck a knife in my eye.

She notices and stops pushing me toward the door, then huffs again and looks in the opposite direction. That’s about as close to an apology as you can get out of her.

“Oh, come on, I didn’t mean that,” she says, her voice adopting that sickly, plummy tone it can get sometimes. “You know I’m behind you a hundred per cent while you figure out what you want to do. And I think time off from football is a great idea. God knows you need it, you’ve been nonstop since you were a kid.” She shrugs. “I just think, if you’re taking time to reassess your life, you should, you know, actually get one.”

Wellbelove makes it sound so easy, like I’m taking a sabbatical to ponder a mild decision, and not like I’ve been struck completely numb by the reality that I have to make crucial decisions about my career, and soon.

“Just one drink. And lunch.” She wiggles her nose. “Please?”

I really don’t want to. I don’t know anything about Simon Snow, not anymore. When we were kids, he was predictable. Easy to out-manoeuver, easy to wind up, easy to make chase me around. But we’re adults now, with more than a decade between us. Sometimes I don’t even like talking to Dev and Niall because of our shared history, and they haven’t made an entire living by riding off my coat tails.

Daphne insists he’s a darling, but it honestly makes me distrust him even more. Someone that interested in me only has an angle.

“Please?” Wellbelove says, poking my arm over and over and over.

“Fine,” I snap. Why the fuck not. My life is already a mess. Why not add in a swimfan?

  
  



	5. TWELFTH MAN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starstruck stalkers, butch lesbians, Great Danes and Oasis. Agatha Wellbelove and whatever you have on tap. Phones in the bucket, lads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when we were like "lol, this won't update regularly" and then COVID-19 forced us to work from home and wiped out our work ethic but did wonders for this fanfic? Let's pour one out for the seasons that have been sacrificed on the pandemic altar. Pray for the NWSL. Also wash your fucking hands and stay home, friends.
> 
> Self-isolated or bummed because pubs aren't showing matches? Console yourself with the official Mummers United FC Spotify playlist, **  
> [casuals and anthems](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7eN5urt3480HkIfvG4fHhN?si=9QWbNQMLSgmzRGSvW4Vpcg).  
>  **
> 
> xx - bad to the brad

**BAZ**

The Sun and Goat looks nothing like I expected.

I’ve passed this pub my whole life, and there was a time that Dev, Niall and I walked by it every day on our way to school. The sagging, Tudor-style building has been here longer than the village itself, and it always looked vaguely sad. Dev used to dare me to go in and try to order a pint, even though I was twelve, because I was the tallest of us and most likely to get away with it. I used to tell him that you couldn’t pay me to set foot in there. (I was also vaguely afraid of the old owner, a woman who at the time looked like a beefy Norse god, but who in retrospect I suspect was just a slightly butch lesbian.)

It looks better than I remembered, admittedly.

The white-washed walls seem brighter, the black paint touched up. There are picnic tables placed in the walled-off courtyard out front and neat, hand-painted letters on the window nearest the door reading HOME OF THE MUMMERS UNITED SUPPORTERS SECTION.

Who runs a supporters club that isn’t even near the stadium?

“Kill me,” I hiss to Wellbelove, tugging on her arm. “There’s a lorry coming, you can push me in the street now and end this all.”

“As much as I’d love to kill you right now, I’d much rather eat,” she says, wrapping a tiny hand around my wrist and dragging me forward. “Come on, it’s eleven on a Friday. It’ll be empty.”

She pushes open the door to the pub and drags me in after her. I’ll have to do some digging to find out what strength training exercises the women’s side are doing, because she is unnaturally and uncomfortably stronger than me.

The inside is warm, probably because of the unreasonably large fire going in the corner, and it’s nearly empty. A few old men litter around the bar and a group of women are seated at a table in the far corner, but otherwise it’s dead.

Dead and playing Oasis. Of course it’s playing Oasis.

“Seat yourself!” a voice calls from the bar. “It’s slow enough, I’ll come round to you.”

The bartender’s back is to us as he lifts the large tap handles and fills up several glasses, and I take advantage of his distraction to dart into the booth nearest the door and angle myself so I’m facing the window.

“Christ, you’re dramatic,” Wellbelove sighs, sliding in across from me. She pulls off her hat and scarf and looks around. “Well this is very twee.” I watch her eyes roam the room as she assesses it. “A proper old boy’s football club. I guess I get it, it’s very—oh my God, there’s the shrine.”

“It’s not a shrine,” I insist. Wellbelove’s eyes are huge as she shakes her head.

“It’s absolutely a shrine. Christ, Baz, there’s pictures of you everywhere. And there’s—oh, look, he’s got your shirt up on the wall. You should sign it for him.”

“I’m not signing anything, don’t be ridiculous.”

“I have _got_ to find out who does his lettering,” Wellbelove continues, her voice getting louder. “You have to see this, right above the bar he’s got the Mummer’s crest and year and slogan. It’s really impressive.”

“It’s fanatical, that’s what it is,” I mutter, adjusting so I don’t have to put my hands on the table. I hate pub tables, they’re always sticky. “It’s deranged. What kind of man dedicates his entire business to—”

“‘Lo,” says a deep voice behind me. “What can I get—oh! It’s you.”

I close my eyes and cringe down into my chair.

“It’s me,” Wellbelove says, her voice perky. “Fancy running into you again. Where’s your dog?”

Maybe if I stay very still, I can just pretend that I’m very cooly disinterested and slyly become one with the faux-leather of the booth.

“Back at home,” the voice says. Snow. Simon Snow. That’s the owner of the voice, I’d bet my life on it. Though his voice has gotten deeper since we were kids. “He’s a bit too rowdy to wait tables. Anyway, er, welcome to the Sun and Goat. Can I, uh, get you two some drinks?”

“I’ll have whatever you’ve got on tap that you recommend,” Wellbelove says, “and Baz will have your house white.”

There’s a very, very long silence, during which Wellbelove’s smile grows wider and wider.

I turn in my seat to face him.

Simon Snow has gotten a lot more attractive since we were kids, too. His face is still covered in dots and his hair is still a wreck, but he’s filled out. He was always an awkward kid, too off-centred, stumbling over his own stockiness. He’s still short, but he wears it well. He looks better in his body.

 _He looks better in his body_. Christ, this is what happens when I have too much time on my hands. My brain begins to shrivel.

If there was ever proof that I need to seriously readjust my life, this is it: I’m twenty-eight years old, hiding in my home village, thinking poetic things about a boy I had a crush on for maybe five minutes fourteen years ago because he was easy to pick on.

The silence is still going on as Snow just stares at me, his face going through a million expressions, finally landing on something that looks very close to anger.

“Problem?” I drawl, shifting one arm so I can hang it along the back of the booth. Snow’s face twists again.

“No. No. Er.” He snaps out of whatever trance he’s in and rubs his hand along the back of his neck. “Yeah. Right, I’ll be back with those drinks.”

He turns around and makes his way back to the bar quickly, and then disappears into a back room.

“You scared the poor thing,” Wellbelove says, tisking. “Did you see that? Practically speechless. He couldn’t even talk, he was so starstruck.”

“Starstruck?” I repeat, turning on her. “He looked livid. Seconds from raging. What the hell was that about?”

“You surprised him, probably,” she says with a dainty shrug. “And what was that thing you did? ‘ _Problem?_ ’” she imitates, doing a very bad job of capturing my natural drawl and sophisticated vowels. “You sounded like a total weirdo.”

“I’ve come for lunch, not to be gawped at,” I snap back, readjusting so I can face out the window again. “How many pictures of me are there?”

Wellbelove’s eyes dart around the room, her lips moving silently. “Six.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Four of those are team photos, though.” She pauses. “Wait, seven. Is that you as a little kid?”

If that ridiculously glowing article about Snow that came out last summer is to be believed, then yes. Yes, that is a photo of me, Dev and Snow in a pick up game on the village green, aged nine.

“I told you, he’s a stalker. A fanatic.”

“I think it’s lovely,” Wellbelove says, shaking her hair over her shoulder. “Now hush, he’s coming back, so be nice.”

A moment later two glasses thud onto the table and Snow is back. He stands there shifting on his feet, never looking directly at me—always over my shoulder, or at Wellbelove. He smiles when he looks at Wellbelove. He looks vaguely nauseated when he looks at me.

“Folk know what you want for lunch?” he asks, squinting out the window behind me.

Of all the fan interactions I’ve had, I’ve never had this one. I turn away and look out the window, and let Wellbelove order for us. Squinting, I can see a huge crowd of people moving down the street, growing larger and larger through the warped, frosted glass as they approach the pub door.

“Oh, bloody fucking hell,” Snow mutters as the bell over the door dings and a horde of school children walk in. “Fuck, it’s Friday.”

He bolts away from the table before Wellbelove has even finished ordering her salad.

“What the hell was that about?” I ask, watching as Snow dives behind the bar. The school children descend on him in what looks like an angry mob.

“I have no idea, but the poor man looked terrified. Like he was about to go into battle,” Wellbelove says, propping her chin on her hand to watch. I dislike that she keeps calling him “the poor man.” I’m the only person she used to refer to as such, and I dislike how quickly someone else has earned her loyalty and sympathy.

“Mr. Simon!” the child at the front yells. Maybe not a child—more of a tween, probably. A bit younger than Mordelia. “Mr. Simonnnnnnnn.”

“Keep your hooves on!” Snow shouts back, popping up from behind the bar with what looks to be a yellow cleaning bucket. “Alright, new rules, listen up.” The horde of children still. “When you order, you put your mobiles in this bucket. No mobile, no ice cream.” A boy at the back looks indignant. “Aye, except you Grant, I know your mum has taken yours.” Snow shakes the empty bucket. “Pick them up on your way out the door, no exceptions.”

“But Mr. Simon—”

“No buts.” He slams the bucket on the counter. “Right, now I haven’t got all day. First up.”

A teen steps up and drops her mobile into the bucket with a loud _thud_ as she orders a Humdrum cone.

Wellbelove and I look back at each other.

“Snow is very odd,” I whisper. “He’s much weirder than I remember.” 

She nods, smiling, and takes a huge sip of ale. “He is. I love it. This is my new favourite lunch place.”

  
  


**SIMON**

By the time the Friday after-school ice-cream crush winds down, I’ve completely forgotten what Baz Pitch ordered for lunch.

Baz Pitch. Baz Pitch is in my pub, sitting at the table where I do the monthly books, drinking wine and waiting for lunch. And when he’s done he’s going to go home to his middle terrace right next door to me, like he’s just some regular bloke and not a bloody Premiership star.

This is so fucking weird.

Throwing my towel over my shoulder, I head back to the table.

“So sorry about that—they get out early on Fridays, always a madhouse. Probably should have just had you order at the bar.” I rub my hand over the back of my neck. “Any chance you could remind me of your orders?”

Baz barely acknowledges me, but his girlfriend just beams.

I dunno who she is—she looks vaguely familiar, but Baz is never really photographed with women, and pretty famously doesn’t speak about his personal life, so they could have been dating for years and we’d never know.

Oh, fuck, they could be married. He could have a secret wife. Is that why he’s leaving the team?

Wait, no. If they were married there would be rings. I peek at Baz’s fingers. Long, weirdly elegant. No ring.

That’s a relief. That would be shit.

But then again, they might not wear rings to avoid questions. No rings doesn’t mean a thing.

“Not a problem. Just two salads. And another ale, maybe?” The girlfriend (wife? Fuck, I just need to not think about this) smiles and snaps me out of it. “Baz, you want another wine?”

Without totally meaning to, I look at him for his response.

It’s weird, seeing him up close. I mean, once a time I saw him every day at school, and for years I’ve been looking at his photos and watching him play. I think it’s probably accurate to say there hasn’t been a day in the past few years I haven’t seen Baz Pitch’s face in some way or form. But seeing him in person is totally different.

He looks tired, for one. The photos and stuff never let him look tired—he’s always got a scowl or arms crossed, some serious look on his face that makes him look imposing and untouchable and perfect. But right now he just looks absolutely knackered.

Maybe he is injured. Maybe he’s off on injury, and they just haven’t released the news yet.

He’s skinny as hell. He looks like he needs to eat more. You think if you make as much money as he does, you could afford to feed yourself and stop looking like a gangly skeleton. With his legs, he’s starting to sort of look like a Great Dane.

“Just keep the wine coming,” he drawls, picking up his glass and draining it in one before pushing it toward me.

“Er. Right.”

I stand there for a minute. I feel like I should say something. Or like, introduce myself? Or re-introduce myself? This is so fucking weird. We knew each other as kids, and he _knows_ I know who he is. And he knows who I am. So standing here acting sort of like strangers but not is fucking weird.

And we’re neighbours. He saw me the other day, right outside the house. Baz Pitch knows we’re neighbours.

“What was with the bucket full of mobiles?” his girlfriend asks before I can muster up the courage to say something.

“What?” I ask, a bit knocked aside.

“You made the kids put their mobiles in the bucket. Is that a house rule or something? No phones with ice cream?”

I can feel my ears flush red. That’s something I hate about myself—I don’t blush much, but when I do, my neck and ears get all splotchy.

“No, er, new rule,” I say, shrugging. Fuck. How do I explain that I took their phones so they wouldn’t see Baz and take a million photos and bug him? “You know how kids are. They instagram everything. Can’t have any privacy around them.”

The two of them blink at me, and my ears feel like they’re literally on fucking fire.

“Right, so, I’ll get this order in.” I tap the towel on my shoulder, because this feels weird, and I like having something to do with my hands, before I turn and head back to the bar.

Bursting into the kitchen, I close the door and lean back on it. Nico looks up from the stove and gives me a shitty squint.

“You look like you’re about to puke. Puke outside,” he says, his voice raspy. He pulls his cigarette from his hat and points to the door with his spatula.

“Oi, no smoking in the kitchen!” I say, reaching across to grab it from him and throw it into the sink. Something about the normal routine makes me feel better. Nico and I are always at it, and it used to be kind of shit—Ebb was the best thing in my life, and after everything she did for me with taking me in as a kid and giving me a job and a place to stay, I wanted to get on with her brother. But I don’t think Nico gets on with anyone. At least, anyone who isn’t Ebb. He and I have been fighting pretty much since she died.

I don’t think it’s because she left me the pub and not him—he’s always said he never wanted it, never wanted to get burdened with this thing. I think Nico just likes being pissed about his situation, no matter what.

After four years, though, it’s kind of become a routine. Nico shows up late, we argue, he waves knives at me and I threaten to set him on fire. It’s kind of comforting.

“Are the kids gone?” he asks, turning back to the stove to poke at what I think is the stew on tonight’s menu.

“Yup. I forgot to order more Humdrums, so they were a bit pissed with me,” I say, putting the order slip for the salads in front of him and leaning back against the freezer. “I sort of blanked on the ice cream order this week, to be honest. I’ll need to get on that.”

“You also forgot to call the wine distributor,” Nico calls over his shoulder as he picks up the order and squints at it. “Who the fuck comes to a pub and orders salad?”

“A bloody Premier League footballer, apparently,” I mutter, scrubbing a hand over my face as I turn and poke around for one of the remaining wine bottles. I do need to get that order in. My head’s been all over this week.

“Yeah, alright kid,” Nico mutters, pulling down two plates. “And I’m a fucking fairy. Get out of here.”

“Hey, Nico, have we got any pie?”

“Shepherd's pie is on the Saturday menu,” Nico grunts. “Friday is stew.”

“No, like, pudding pie. Blueberry pie or a cobbler or anything.”

Nico stops slamming pots and turns to stare at me.

“Why are you asking after pie?”

My ears light up again. Fuck them.

“No reason,” I mutter, grabbing the wine and pushing out the door. “Get those salads done fast, aye? No more smoke breaks in the middle of meal service.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” Nico grunts, which honestly makes me a bit more worried than if he’d argued or said something nasty.

Pouring the wine and pulling another pint, I finish just as Nico dings the bell to let me know the food is ready, and I take it round to the table all together. Baz is gone—probably popped to the loo, or maybe decided to just leave all together.

“Thanks,” the woman says as I set everything down and turn to leave. “Simon, right?”

I pause and nod. Guess there goes any question of if they knew who I am. “Yeah. Simon Snow.”

“Agatha Wellbelove,” she says, sticking out a tiny, dainty hand. I take it carefully, but she nearly crushes my fucking hand when she shakes. “Thank you. For the phone thing, earlier.” She nods her head toward the bar. “Baz doesn’t like the attention.”

“Oh.” My stomach churns. “Yeah, no, of course, no problem. You’re just here to eat, no need to have folk up in your business.” I run a hand through my hair and shrug. “Happy to help.”

Agatha smiles. She’s proper beautiful; blonde hair, tan skin, fit as all. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a woman as beautiful as her before, honestly. Like a fairy tale princess or somat. Makes sense that she’d be with someone like Baz.

“You’ve got a lovely pub,” she says, looking around. “I play for the MumU women’s side, by the way.” She pauses and frowns. “I notice you’ve got none of our scarves or banners.”

My heart leaps to my fucking throat. Another footballer. I’ve got two pro footballers in my pub. Christ, their kids would be gorgeous and talented. Almost seems unfair, actually.

“You know, that’s a very good point,” I say, adjusting to lean against the wooden column behind me. “I’ve always thought I should show the women’s games, just never got around to it.” I shrug. “They’re bloody hard to find a schedule for, though.”

Agatha takes a pointed sip of her ale.

“I’ll bring you a schedule.”

“Bring me a scarf and I’ll add it to the wall.” Agatha grins at me and I grin back. “Have you got a supporters section at all?”

She shakes her head and grimaces. “Not remotely. We’ve got about three girls who do a decent job, and the brother of one of our players tries to organise things, but it’s never really taken off. Can’t imagine why.”

“Tell you what,” I say, “next game, I’ll show it here, see if I can get some folk in. You can pass on word, if you want. See how it goes.”

Agatha’s grin is so large she looks like she could eat me.

“Are you going to start a supporters section for us, then?” she asks. “Without ever seeing a game?”

I shrug. If she’s dating Baz, she’s probably a ruthless player too.

“I like good football. And I like cheering on a team full of good people.”

Agatha hums and glances out the window, and then makes a snorting sound. I follow her gaze and can just make out Baz, sitting at one of the picnic tables out front, on the phone. He’s pulling at his hair and looking pissed as hell.

“For Christ’s sake, can’t let him finish one bloody meal,” she mutters. “Sorry, I’ve got to go.” She pulls a handful of notes—way too many notes—out of her purse and drops them on the table. “Great talking to you, Simon. I’ll have Baz bring round that schedule and scarf for you.”

When she’s gone, I go back around the bar and just sit on the floor for a moment, trying to process the weirdest lunch hour of my life. I do this sometimes. Just blink out. Penny says I have a tendency to go off: either I get so worked up during matches that I just pop off like a firework, or I get so overwhelmed that I just shut off and close down for a few minutes.

The door to the back swings open while I’m down there.

“Taking my break. Why are you sitting on the floor?” Nico asks, his jacket on and a cigarette ready to be lit.

“Fuck off,” I snarl, staring at the taps.

“Fucking weirdo,” Nico mutters, stepping over me to pull a pint for himself before leaving. “Kid’s gone round the fuckin’ bend.”

He leaves me alone, finally, and I lean my head back against the old, sticky wood.

Baz Pitch was in my pub. Baz Pitch drinks white wine and is sort of snooty and has a footie girlfriend and gets annoying phone calls and is going to be dropping round a scarf for me.

And I’ve still got no bloody idea what he’s doing in Watford-on-Mummers.

  
  



	6. ASSIST

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon's tap muscles, homophobic weather, match-day jitters and Soviet sleeper agents. No one will believe this and the referee's a wanker. Fucking Numpty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday, friends! We are unlikely to update over the weekend, as we shall be social distancing, AKA: sleeping. Stay safe, stay hygienic, don't let the feral hogs get you.
> 
> Soundtrack your shut-in with the official Mummers United FC Spotify playlist, **  
> [casuals and anthems](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7eN5urt3480HkIfvG4fHhN?si=9QWbNQMLSgmzRGSvW4Vpcg).  
>  **
> 
> xx - god-is-basic

**BAZ**

_“As fans have noticed, Pitch is not one of tonight’s starters. We’ve just had word from MumU leadership that Pitch will be skipping tonight’s game—his third skip in his entire career. Longtime supporters will remember the two matches Pitch sat out last summer, leading up to the World Cup, when medical ordered him off to rest his knee.”_

I glare at the TV. I shouldn’t be watching. What’s the point of stepping away if I’m just going to agonise?

But even when I’ve been out for medical, I’ve never missed a game. In thirteen years, I’ve never missed a MumU game. Longer, probably. Well before I started playing in the academy, I watched every match as soon as I was old enough. I used to sit on the floor of the den and take notes, Googling player stats at mid-time. No one has ever accused me of being ill-prepared.

 _“Word is that Pitch is out tonight due to an ongoing health concern. No idea what that is, but he’s been put on the injury list for at least the next four weeks._ ” The broadcaster has one of those hideous nasally BBC accents, the kind that drags out the end of words into a hum. It annoys the hell out of me.

“ _You know John, I wonder if it’s got something to do with that nasty spill he took two weeks ago when he got taken down by Numpty._ ” The other broadcaster is Scouse. Lovely. I take another sip of wine.

“ _I’d forgotten about the runin with Numpty, Mike. That was nasty. Thought he was cleared after a concussion check, though?”_

“ _Allegedly, though some fans have noticed his leg has been a bit wonky. Maybe Numpty put him on the injury list._ ”

I scoff into my glass. Numpty did not put me on the bloody injury list. Pete “Numpty” Numporter is a wrecking ball of a player with no football IQ or grace, and he absolutely did not give me a concussion or fuck up my leg. The only reason I went down so hard when we collided was because we were in the 86th minute and two ahead and I was time wasting and wanted to ask the physio if he had the score for the Crystal Palace match.

“Fucking Numpty,” I scoff, pouring some more wine and taking a sip. It tastes sour, but I swallow it down anyway and refocus on the television.

The pitch looks eye-wateringly green through the neon bulbs of my television. Almost impossibly green. It doesn’t look like that when I’m out there. You don’t see the size of it, really. All you see is the crowd, the lights, the ball. The net.

I should be out there.

Shifting, I take another sip of wine and try to adjust into a more comfortable position on the sofa. Maybe I should have gone to the match. Maybe I shouldn’t have done this. Maybe I do have a concussion. Maybe this has all been an extended, miraculous delusion, and I’m actually still on the field after being taken down.

On the television I hear the starting chords of MumU’s walk on song. “I'm The Face” by The High Numbers. It’s a really horrible walk-on beat, makes absolutely not sense, and one of my favourite songs in the world.

My heart starts beating very fast, and my fingers start to feel numb as the panic begins to set in.

“Fuck this,” I mutter, getting up and turning off the match. I’m not going to sit here alone in my depressing middle-terrace and have a panic attack. I could drive to Mummers and join the match late and do that there.

Scrounging up my shoes and a hoodie, I grab my keys and head out the door. 

I’m going to just go get drunk. I’m not playing a match. I can do that now.

***

It’s sunny and blue skies out, which is extremely inconvenient. The first match I’ve skipped in years, and it’s perfect weather. It’s ludicrous. Obscene. Homophobic.

The sun beats down into my eyes as I jog through the village. No one is out: it’s like a bloody ghost town. One old lady nearly bowls me over in her efforts to get home with her roller cart full of cat food, but otherwise I don’t see a soul.

I’m rounding the village green, heading toward the road that leads to Dev’s house, when a wave of screaming, roaring sound hits me. I startle, coming to a stop, and stare across the street at The Sun and Goat. It’s almost bursting out the seams, packed with people, spilling out into the tables out front, all of them talking and shouting and yelling.

“What a fucking wanker!” shouts a voice, rising above the din. Snow. “He’s fucking blind!”

“Referee’s a wanker!” someone out front shouts back inside to Snow. Through the window, I can just vaguely make out the sight of Snow climbing on top of a table as the pub fills with dozens of voices echoing _the referee’s a wanker_.

Shaking my head, I keep running, staying as far from the pub as I can.

Dev and Niall share a house just off of High Street, and I head straight there. I’ve never understood why they won’t move. Or at least, why Dev won’t. Niall is a teacher at the primary and likes to have Sunday dinners with his gran, but Dev isn’t exactly the type to spend his life in a nowhere village. He’d do great in London, or Manchester, or even Mummers. But he came back here after uni and works in software and generally makes no sense to me.

They make me ring the buzzer four times before I hear movement within and Niall pulls open the door. They’ve clearly been drinking: his face is red and flushed, and his messy auburn hair is sticking up. He pulls his hair when he drinks and watches matches.

“Baz!” he exclaims, stepping aside for me. “What are you doing here? Figured you’d be in Mummers.”

“As you may have noticed, I’m not playing.” I move quickly into the entryway. I don’t want anyone to see me outside, loitering.

“Right, yeah, but figured you’d still go to the match,” he says, clapping me on the back and heading back down the hallway toward the den. I follow him silently. I’ve tried to explain to Dev and Niall why I’m taking time off, but they don’t seem to fully understand it.

No one seems to understand it. No one seems to understand what a big deal this is. Professional footballers don’t just take time off. We don’t get to do this.

And anyway, it’s hard to explain the situation without explaining the state of my life, and the yawning chasm of lonesome monotony stretching ahead of me, and the way that setting foot on a pitch used to make me feel alive, but now it just sort of makes me feel dead.

“Son of a bitch, Basilton Pitch!” Dev shouts as I walk into the den. He’s sprawled out on the sofa, and he wordlessly passes a beer over to Niall when he sits down next to him. “Your team fucking blows without you.”

“Of course they do,” I say, settling into the armchair. “I’m the heart and soul of the franchise.” Scowling, I glare at Dev. “By the way, you’re dead to me.”

“Why now?” he asks, not taking his eyes off the match.

“When I asked for a short-term let, somewhere tidy and nice, why did you select a middle terrace that I can’t even fit my kit in, which happens to be next door to Simon fucking Snow?”

Dev snorts into his drink, leans forward and offers me a beer. I hate beer--it makes me feel bloated and gets me drunk faster than wine, for some reason, but I take it.

“Look, short-term lets around here are thin on the ground,” he says. “There were hardly any options in the village.”

“Literally anything would have been better than the house next to Snow.”

“Nah, come on, Simon’s a good enough type,” Niall says. “If you can get past the hero worship and stalking.”

“I reckon he’s got a private shrine of Baz in his bedroom,” Dev says, nodding. “I’ve been dying to get into his room, just to see.”

“Just how often do you imagine being in Simon’s bedroom, then?” Niall asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Look, I’m going to side-step you two being assholes, and just say, Snow’s got some arms on him from pulling those taps all day,” Dev says, taking a lazy sip of his beer. “But he’s got pictures of your face on his ceiling, I bet it.”

I make a face and take another sip of beer.

“This is actually just sad to watch,” Niall says, shaking his head toward the television. “Tell me, how’s your back? Is it broken from carrying your team?”

“My spine is made of iron,” I drawl, picking at the threads of the arm chair. I glance up at the TV and immediately wish I didn’t. We’re down one already.

The match drags on for what feels like years, accompanied by Dev’s quips and Niall’s grunts. Going into the second half, we’re down four and I’m three beers in.

“Oh, shit play,” Dev mutters at the screen. “I’m getting another beer.” He claps Niall on the knee and gets up to wander into the kitchen, and Niall stretches out into his abandoned space.

“Think you’ll go back?” he asks quietly.

“It is certainly an option,” I say, evading the question. Niall fixes his eyes on me.

“Do you want to go back?” he asks, his tone sharper.

I look away from him and pick lint off my sleeve.

I’m not avoiding the question. I just don’t know the answer.

**SIMON**

I reek of beer and cigarettes and grease, and I’ve locked myself out of my house.

“Please pick up,” I mutter into my mobile, calling Penny for the third time. I keep a spare at hers, because I always do this. I used to keep a spare at the pub, but I kept taking it home and losing it. Penny always demands the key back after I get in.

Her phone goes to voicemail again and I curse. Fuck, I’m absolutely done in. The pub was swarmed today and Baz didn’t play, so the match was an absolute bunk and today has been one massive ball ache. All I want to do is go in and get the stink off me and go the fuck to sleep. I’m too knackered to even walk Davey. He’ll be a shit about it, but that’s the entire reason I installed that giant fucking doggy door into the garden door, even though it pushes my electricity bill up all winter.

Slumping onto my steps, I pull my jacket in closer and look out into the night. My house is cramped and tiny and has wonky ceilings that make it impossible to fit furniture, but it’s got killer views. On nights like this, you can see clear over the village and make out every star in the sky.

Maybe I could call Gareth. He lives over near Penny; he could walk next door and ask her for the key. He’s the one who spilt his drink all over me tonight, so really, he owes me.

But then he’ll want to talk. Talking to Gareth is a kick in the head.

Maybe I should just go back to the Goat. Ebb had an office upstairs that I’ve never really used, but there is a kind of mouldy sofa that I could crash on if need be.

Or I could go through the doggy door.

I lean my head against the door with a thunk. Fuck. I really don’t want to go through the doggy door.

I’m about two seconds from climbing over the fence and crawling into my house when I hear footsteps coming down the lane. I look up eagerly; maybe Pen saw all my calls and just _knew_.

But the person walking closer to the streetlamp is way too tall to be Penny, and unfortunately far too masculine.

Even though I _know_ Baz lives next door to me, it still catches me like a punch to the stomach when I see him. Which is mental. He’s just Baz. He’s just a normal bloke. For Christ’s sake, I used to go to school with him every day. I remember his holier than thou, hoity toity kid phase, and no matter what kind of person or prick he grew up into, there’s no way it could be worse than that.

I don’t think he grew up into a prick, though. Fucking weird, yeah. Bloody inscrutable, absolutely. Possibly in the process of going round the bend? More than likely. But not a prick.

“‘Lo,” I say, waving a hand to him as he passes, trying to sound chill. He pauses and blinks at me. He looks like he just walked right off the pitch: training trackies, hoodie, hair pulled up in his classic low-bun style.

“Hello,” he says slowly, like he’s trying to suss out if I’m about to jump him or something. Fair. He probably gets jumped a lot, and I’ve got to look like a fucking weirdo, sitting out on my stoop in the freezing cold at eleven p.m. He pauses against my gate and squints at me. “Were you waiting for me to come home?”

“What?” I yelp, jumping up. “No. No, not at all.” I pull my hand up to rub at the back of my neck. “I locked myself out. I’m waiting for my friend to answer her phone and bring my spare.”

Baz’s mouth ticks up at the corner.

“Do this a lot, then?”

“Fair bit more than I’d care to admit,” I mutter. “I’ve just about decided to go in through the doggy door.”

He gazes at me blankly and his eyes slide up and over my house, like he’s assessing it, before they land back on me. His eyes are a bit droopy, and he sways against my gate.

Holy shit, Baz Pitch might be drunk.

“You’ve an open window on the second floor,” he says, pushing the gate open and coming down my walk in two quick strides. “That’s hideously unsafe. Someone could break in. You could be murdered in your sleep.”

“It’s Mummers. Our crime consists of littering and people who don’t pick up dog poo.”

“Mhm,” Baz hums, looking up at my open bedroom window. “Well then, what are you waiting for? Give me a lift.”

“What?” I sputter. Baz already has one hand against the wall and is picking up his foot.

“Give me a lift,” he repeats. 

Oh, he’s definitely drunk.

He shakes his foot again.

“Lift me, Snow,” he commands. This is so fucking weird. This is so, so fucking weird, but I cup my hands together and bend down, and Baz Pitch steps into my hand.

This foot is worth several million pounds. Probably not a good time to think about how often I break glasses at the pub because I’ve got a chronic case of butterfingers.

“Oi, do you remember when we were ten, and someone broke into the school overnight and barricaded all the classroom doors with the desks and locked it up from within, and they cancelled school for the day while they sorted it out?” I huff, lifting Baz up. “Everyone thought it was a ghost, but I always reckoned the person who did it went through the window.”

“A little higher,” Baz says, reaching out for the window ledge. “And of course I remember. My aunt took Dev, Niall and me to Sheffield to see a game that day.” His hands close around the ledge, and suddenly the weight in my hand lessens. “That’s why I did it.”

I look up to see Baz _pull himself up_ through my open window, and then there’s a small thud and a crash and suddenly the mad sound of Davey barking up a storm.

Fuck. Forgot to warn him about that.

The barking keeps up, clearly moving through my house, until a minute later my front door swings open and Baz fucking Pitch leans against my jamb.

“Your room is a mess, your dog is trying to kill me, and your house is somehow much larger than mine,” he says, stepping aside to let me in. “And there are no pictures of me on the ceiling.”

Before I can ask why I’d have pictures of him on my ceiling, Davey nearly leaps for his throat. He’s barking up a fucking chorus, jumping up and down, trying to bounce off of Baz’s back.

“Dave, down,” I shout, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him backward until I can throw him out the back garden door. I shove the rubbish bin in front of the doggy door to keep him from barrelling back through.

“That’s not a dog, that’s a Soviet sleeper agent,” Baz drawls, folding his arms across his chest and frowning at me.

“Ah, come on. He’s just protecting his house,” I say, rubbing my hand over the back of my neck.

Baz Pitch is standing in my kitchen. Fuck, he’s tall. He smirks, a cocky thing. He’s fit too, but fuck if he doesn’t know it.

“Thanks, by the way,” I say, moving to the fridge to look away from him. “You want a beer?”

I open the fridge and my dark kitchen gets flooded with light, spilling over me and Baz. The dim yellow washes him out, makes the shadows under his eyes look even deeper. Does he ever sleep? He’s rich as hell, a prized athlete, and has a corker of a girlfriend. Why is no one taking care of him?

“No, I rather suspect I’ve drunk myself into enough of a hole tonight,” he says, pushing off the counter to head toward the door. “I needed to get through that match.”

I grab a beer for myself, just to do something with my hands, and follow him back toward the entryway.

“Wasn’t as bad as it could have been,” I say with a shrug. “Manager just made some bad calls. Put too much stress on the defence.”

My words die off as I realise this is a pro footballer I’m explaining the game to, and not Gareth. Christ, I’m a div. Of course he knows there was too much stress on the defence.

Baz snorts. “Mac has decent players, he just doesn’t know how to use them.” He sways a bit, and then scowls at my kitchen. Not sure what he’s scowling at. It’s a good kitchen. Ebb had it renovated a few years back and everything. I’ve even got a full size fridge.

“Listen,” I say, because I feel like I’ve got to say something. “Come by the Goat some time. You never got to each your lunch yesterday. Drinks on me.”

Baz surveys me and stays quiet, like he’s waiting for something else. Fuck if I know what. What do you say to your old classmate-slash-famous footballer who's just broken into your house for you?

Oh, fuck, he went through my bedroom. I have a literal pile of pants up there that need a washing, and more tea mugs than I care to admit.

Baz probably keeps his place super clean, or pays a service to come in and clear out the mugs daily.

“I, er, I won’t tell anyone, you know.” I scuff my trainer against the floor. “About anything, in general, or this, you know….” I trail off and look up. Baz is standing at the door, one hand on the knob, ready to leave.

“Of course you’re won’t,” he says, and something warm sparks in my gut. “No one would believe you.”

He pulls open the door with a gust of nighttime air and steps out. “Goodnight, Snow.”

Then he closes the door behind him, like he was never fucking here.

I sit down on the floor and stare at my door for a moment, wondering what the fuck just happened, until there’s a crash from behind me and my rubbish bin goes flying as Davey bursts into the kitchen. He makes a beeline for me and stands over my chest, nosing at my shirt and face like he’s checking me for harm before giving me a bollocking.

“I dunno, mate,” I tell him, pushing his snout away and collapsing onto my back. “I’ve got no fucking clue.”

  
  



	7. NUTMEG

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deception, bad acting, a very nice nordic-style chair and more breaking and entering. Ossie's dream and Tottenham's number one fan. Er...nae

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, friends! The world is shutting down, but this fic is still kicking.
> 
> Stay six feet apart but find some community with the official Mummers United FC Spotify playlist, **  
> [casuals and anthems](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7eN5urt3480HkIfvG4fHhN?si=9QWbNQMLSgmzRGSvW4Vpcg).  
>  **
> 
> xx - basic bread

**BAZ**

Someone is downstairs.

There’s a skittering and a crash, followed by a loud thunk, and I sit upright in bed.

I woke up early and did a gruelling run and train. I probably pushed myself too hard, because I was dragging my feet as I got home, and I barely remember coming back. Did I lock the door? I can’t remember locking the door.

I bolt out of bed. And here Snow said the only issue was dog poo.

Creeping to the top of the stairs, I look around for something I can arm myself with, but all I really have is bags full of kit and some clothes. It’s not like I can chuck a football boot at an intruder.

There’s another crash from my kitchen.

Maybe it’s a reporter? Maybe they’ve found out where I’m hiding, and they’ve broken into my house like the parasites they are and are digging through my things trying to find a story.

Grabbing a lamp, I straighten up and walk downstairs.

“Whoever you are, I’ve just rung the police,” I say as casually and confidently as I can. “If I were you, I would stay very still and not kick up a ruckus.”

The noise in the kitchen pauses. I can’t believe that worked. 

“They’re on the phone now,” I say, taking a tentative step into the entryway. “You have only a few minutes before—”

I come to a full stop as I survey the scene in my kitchen. The rubbish bin has been knocked over, my rubbish strewn everywhere, and in the midst of the carnage, sitting calmly and glaring me down like I’m the intruder is Simon bloody Snow’s dog.

“What the fuck are you doing, searching my house?” I snarl at the dog, walking forward to grab his collar. He growls at me and goes to back up, but I grab him and drag him toward the door, which is in fact hanging wide open.

This dog isn’t just a menace, he’s a felon.

“Snow!” I holler, storming down my walk and next door to his. “Snow! Your bloody dog has gotten out!”

I pound on the door while the monster twists and tries to get away from me, taking a nip at my wrist. Fuck. Snow isn’t even fucking home.

On a hunch, I twist his doorknob. The door swings open. He didn’t lock his bloody door. Was it even locked the other night when I climbed in through his window for him?

I try very hard not to think about that. I still can’t believe I did that. I wish I had gotten even drunker, had blacked out so that I wouldn’t remember drunkenly scaling Simon Snow’s house.

“Get in there and stay in there,” I say, shoving Snow’s abomination into his entryway. I consider just leaving him, but it still begs the question of how he got out to begin with. Carefully, I walk into Snow’s house.

“Snow?” I call, moving through the kitchen. It’s a nice kitchen. Clearly recently remodelled, with that kind of smooth nordic-wood finish I’ve always rather liked. He even has a full size fridge. Through the kitchen I can see a cosy den, and then—

That smiley piece of shit has a glass conservatory expansion. My middle-terrace doesn’t have anything like that. It has depression and beige carpeting, and Snow has bloody hardwood and flagstone.

I hate him.

“Snow?” I call again. There don’t seem to be any doors open, but he does have a comically large doggy door into his garden. I’ve never seen a dog door like this. “Snow, I have your dog!”

He’s clearly not home, but I’d rather not be accused of breaking and entering.

Through the kitchen window I can see his back garden and the fence that separates our properties. He’s got a stone wall around his side, but he’s made almost no effort to block the top of it to keep the dog from jumping over and running wild through the village. What an idiot.

Going into the den, I pick up a chair—another sort of cosy nordic-wood type, I rather like it—and drag it in front of the dog door.

“Stay in your lane, mongrel,” I tell the dog. He sits in the middle of the kitchen and growls at me.

“You’re a health hazard,” I add for good measure, before slipping out the front door and locking it behind me.

***

“Snow!”

My shout is a bit louder than I intended, but luckily no one in the pub turns to look at me. It’s largely empty, except for the same group of men at the bar who I think were there last time, and who seem to be completely uninterested in my presence.

Snow is sat in front of the bar, drinking a lager and scrolling through something on his laptop. He looks up and his eyes go wide for a moment before a huge grin breaks across his face.

It catches me off guard.

“Hey!” he yells, waving me over. His voice is high and excited and he nearly knocks over his pint glass. “Why are you here?”

Then he pauses and seems to deflate. “Oh. Come to watch?”

“What?” I ask, pausing. He’s taken the wind out of my sails a bit.

“The game,” Snow says, nodding toward the huge television near the bar. “I’m showing the women’s side.” He glances around the pub and sighs. “Was hoping for a bit of a better turn out, but two of us are better than nothing.”

“I—” I start, opening my mouth then closing it. “No. Your dog broke into my house.”

“Oh, fuck, really?” Snow asks, his eyes going huge. They’re very blue. Disturbingly blue. I’d forgotten how blue they are. “Sorry ‘bout that. He’s got his own agendas. Did he break anything?”

“He ate my rubbish.”

“Ah, he’ll be fine then,” he says. “If he does it again, you can just shove him back in the house. Everyone else does.”

“I—” I’m floundering. “Why is your house so much nicer than mine?”

“What?” Snow asks, staring at me with his mouth open. This conversation is painful. “I sort of doubt that.”

“No, I mean, nicer than the one I’m renting. Mine looks like where you go to die, and yours is all… furnished.”

Snow is looking at me like I’m mad. I may actually be mad. I have no idea why I came here, suddenly. My concussion theory is getting stronger.

“It was my Aunt Ebb’s house,” Snow says, getting down from his stool and going back around the bar. He gets down another glass and pulls a dark lager. “Well, kind of aunt. Not actually related. Long story. Anway, she redid it shortly before she passed, ended up leaving it to me. Along with the pub. And the dog.” He places the lager in front of me. “Sorry about him, again. He’s nice as can be if he likes you, he just gets a bit rambunctious.”

“It’s… fine.” I stare down at the offered alcohol. I’d wondered how Snow had bought the pub. I didn’t know the old owner had taken him in. It explains some questions I had years and years ago. “Did no one really come to watch the game?”

Snow sucks in his lips and nods.

“Yup.” He leans against the bar, his arms folded in front of him. Dev was right: he does have some biceps, in a rounded, full-body way. “It’ll pick up halfway through when folks come in for food. You gonna stay?”

I stare first at the stool in front of me and then the lager.

“I’m a bit…” I close my mouth and try to reset. This is ridiculous. I’m stumbling over my words and acting like a complete idiot. “I doubt you can confiscate mobiles for everyone who comes in,” I say finally. It won’t do to have skipped a match for injury and then be papped sitting and drinking beer in a pub in the middle of the day.

Snow nods. “Right. Give me a tick.”

He disappears through a door behind the bar and I sit on the stool, carefully looking around. No one is looking at me. One man at the bar gives me a polite nod and returns to his conversation, and no one else spares me a second look, even though I’m literally sitting underneath a photo of myself.

It’s a good photo. My hair looked great that season. 

“Here,” Snow says, popping back up and shoving a hideous blue and white thing at me. “Confiscated it off Rhys a few months ago.”

I stare at it.

“This is a Tottenham hoodie,” I say, holding it out from my body. “Why are you giving me a Tottenham hoodie?”

“Because you can pull it up over your hair,” Snow says, shrugging. “And no one would expect you in blue and white.”

“I’d rather die,” I say, sniffing at it. “Why does it smell like Earl Grey?”

“I keep all the non-MumU swag I confiscate in the tea cupboard.”

Grimacing, I unzip my jacket, pull the hoodie on and put up the hood, then replace my jacket. Maybe no one will notice it’s Spurs if I hide the worst of it.

“So you’re staying?” Snow asks, leaning on the bar and grinning at me so widely I can see all his teeth, can see every ridiculous freckle and mole lighting up. It’s absurd. A grown man shouldn’t have so many freckles.

I move my lager over toward the old man who nodded at me.

“Do you have white wine?”

**SIMON**

“That’s Trixie,” Baz says, gesturing at the screen. “Watch how she comes up for this next pass, look at her right foot.”

The woman on the screen has bright pink hair, and I watch as she does a clean nutmeg through the opposing defender, recaptures the ball, and passes it off to Agatha in a beautiful assist. Agatha takes it half a yard and sinks it neatly in goal.

“Fuck,” I laugh, slapping the bar. The old men down the counter send up a cheer.

“She’s done that six times this season,” Baz says, smiling. “I keep telling Wellbelove to show me how it’s done, but she won’t.”

Sort of weird that he calls his girlfriend Wellbelove, but he seems to call everyone by their last name, like some kind of personal quirk. Probably does it to seem hard.

He’s not that hard, though. Actually. He’s got a dimple on one side of his face, and it’s soft next to his sharp smile. He’s been smiling since his second wine. I sure hope they were wrong about him being on the injury list for a concussion, because I don’t think he should be drinking if that’s the case.

“Reckon she’s placing the weight on her back foot,” I say, gazing at the TV and shaking my head. “Look how she kind of rocks back? That’s why it looks like she’s doing a hop.”

Baz pauses and goes very still. Beneath the bar, I can see the tops of his knees as he slowly moves his feet, going through the mock motions of the nutmeg.

It’s fucking cute to watch.

“Gonna try that out next game?” I ask, pouring myself another lager. Baz freezes. Not his thinking freeze from before, but a full body tense up.

“Maybe,” he says, turning away from me and back to the TV.

He’s been like this the whole time. Like every time he starts to almost look like he’s having a good time, suddenly I say something or he remembers something and then he just shuts down and gets stiff again.

I’m about bursting to ask about his injury. He’s walking fine, he’s drinking fine, and he’s got no crutches or tape. So what kind of invisible injury could put him out for a full month? And why would he come here to ride it through?

He’d probably put a boot through my head if I asked, though. And I don’t want to spook him off. How many chances do you get to watch a match with your favourite player?

Also, I’ve got this suspicion that I’m sort of becoming friends with Baz Pitch.

Someone comes up to the bar to order and I move away from Baz to get their drinks and process their payment. The pub is filling up, folk trickling in and a few paying attention to the game while they eat. No one has hassled Baz, though. A few people have clocked him, for sure. Keris got wide eyes when she ordered a white wine for herself, and Gareth grabbed my shoulder and made a gaping expression. But I’ve been shaking my head and they’ve been getting the message—some faster than others. But they’re leaving him alone. They’re good folk.

I don't think Baz has noticed, though. I wish he would. Wish he’d see no one here is out to give him a rough time. He’s a local boy. He’s one of us.

“Simon!”

I turn at the sound of the perky American voice and my gut drops out. It’s him—Shep, the journalist, the one with the podcast.

Of bloody course he’s here while Baz is here. Fuck. If he hassles Baz, he’ll never come back.

“Hey, Shep!” I say loudly. Baz’s shoulders tense and he shifts on his stool, ducking his head away and toward the other wall. “Welcome back, mate.”

Shepard grins, nodding so fast his big glasses nearly slip down his face.

“Great to see you. Listen,” he says, lowering his voice a bit and leaning over the bar. “Is that Baz Pitch down there?”

He points right at Baz, and Baz’s shoulders get higher. Fuck.

“What?” I say, my voice loud. “That? Nah, that’s….” I flounder. “Chaz.”

Baz chokes.

“Chaz?” Shepard asks, still smiling.

“Yup,” I say, grabbing my towel off my shoulder and wiping down a clean glass that does not need wiping. “Chaz...Watford.” I wince. Baz winces. Across the pub, Keris and Gareth and Rhys all wince.

I’m not that great at lying, to be honest.

“Chaz Watford,” Shep repeats slowly.

“Yup. He’s Scottish. Tottenham fan. Right, Chaz?”

Baz whips around to stare at me, his eyes huge, his eyebrows flying everywhere.

“Er,” he says. Pauses. Clears his throat. “Och. Aye. Am pure dead Spurs fan. Harry Kane’s a braw wee fella.” He sounds like a fucking bad Gerard Butler impersonator and I nearly choke on my spit. His eyebrows flatten out. “Fuck off.”

“Right. Okay,” Shep says, nodding. “Sure. That’s definitely Chaz Watford. Yup.” He turns around. “Simon, could I get like four beers?”

“Let’s start you on one,” I say, pulling an ale for him. “On the house. Thanks for that article, by the way.”

“My absolute pleasure, my friend,” Shepard says, taking the ale from me. To my immense disappointment, he takes it and sits down next to Baz.

“Hi, I’m Shepard. From Omaha.”

Baz scoots to the very edge of his bar stool.

“So, Chaz, do you like podcasts?”

Baz turns and looks at me, his eyes wide, practically fucking begging me to save him.

This day has been fucking wild.

“Er...nae,” Baz says. I want to fucking fall down. I can’t handle this. Shep doesn’t even blink.

“Shame. I run a podcast for BBC, it's about football. It’s not your typical play-by-play. It’s more about trying to understand the spirit of the game, and learning about the things that people don’t usually talk about. I’m trying to get some great guests on. Would you know anyone that would be interested?”

“Er...nae,” Baz repeats.

“Here, Shep,” I say, cutting in. “We’ve got the MumU women’s match on. Look at this winger—her name is Agatha Wellbelove. Watch her move. She’d be a great guest.”

“I didn’t know MumU had a women’s team,” Shepard says, taking a sip of his beer and clinking the rim on his glasses. “I didn’t know there were any pro women’s teams.”

Baz and I exchange a glance.

“Well, there’s your story,” I say, tapping the counter. “You should talk to her. You know, they’re playing in Mummers tonight. You could go to the match. Right now. Get an interview.”

Shepard gives Baz and me a flat look, then drains his ale.

“Maybe I will,” he says, reaching out a hand to Baz. “Great to meet you. Let me know if you think of anyone who’d like to be on, yeah?”

Baz reluctantly shakes Shep’s hand, then drops it quickly.

“Er...aye.”

Shep stands up and grins at me. “Have a great day, Simon. You too, Chaz.” He pulls a crinkled business card out of his pocket and drops it in front of Baz, and then leaves the pub.

As soon as the door closes behind him, I burst out laughing.

“You’re a menace,” Baz snarls, turning on me quick as lightning and pointing his finger in my face. “Chaz Watford? What the bloody fuck, Snow?”

“I’m shit at thinking on my feet!” I exclaim, gripping the bar for support. “And you’re wearing Tottenham colours, I was thinking of Chas Hodges—you know, Chas and Dave, _Ossie’s Dream_?”

“Jesus wept,” Baz says, draining his wine. “Jesus fucking wept, Snow.” He slams the glass on the counter. “That’s going to be stuck in my head all day now.”

“It’s catchy,” I admit, then glance up at the TV. “Oh! Oh! Fuck, look, Agatha’s tearing up—”

“Come on!” Baz shouts, nearly knocking over his glass as we watch Agatha steal possession and run up the wing.

“Get her in!”

“She’s gonna—”

“That’s a girl, get her—”

“ALRIGHHTTTTTT!” Baz and I both end up shouting out mindless, wordless hollers of success as Agatha side-steps a defender and sinks another clean goal. Baz slaps the bar counter and I whip the towel off my shoulder.

“Full time, four-nil, MumU women’s,” I shout to the pub. “Round on the house!”

A cheer goes up throughout the Goat, and I glance over my shoulder as I head to the taps.

Baz Pitch is grinning from ear to ear, looking like he’s just scored the winning goal himself.

I haven’t seen him smile like that in seasons.


	8. SHIELDING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beatniks, live tweets, tornados and Sheep. Enter: Fiona Pitch. We're drinking our lunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello! We've a short chapter for you all today, apologies, but we're getting there. How goes the quarantine, friends? If you're looking for some indoor exercise, try head banging to the Mummers United FC Spotify playlist, **[casuals and anthems](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7eN5urt3480HkIfvG4fHhN?si=9QWbNQMLSgmzRGSvW4Vpcg). **
> 
> xx - God of Banshees

**SIMON**

“So is he playing today?” Penny asks, handing me glasses out of the crate as I stack them up on the shelves.

“No,” I grunt, reaching a high spot. “He’s off injury for a month, remember?”

“Right, but you said he wasn’t injured.”

I spin on the stool, wobbling a bit, and hiss at Penny.

“I never said  _ that _ , I just said he didn’t look it. Who knows what’s going on.”

“Mhhmmm,” Penny says, handing me another glass. “Alright, I did my obligatory ask after Baz. Now let’s talk about the American.”

“He’s been sniffing around too much,” I say, taking Penny’s hand to climb down off the stool. “I told you, he came in here the other day when Baz was in, nearly scared him off—”

“I meant how the American won’t stop bugging me for a date,” Penny cuts in, putting the stool back before following me to push the tables away from the centre of the floor. Folk like to stand up and shout and stuff during the games, and I try to give them room to do it without putting an elbow in someone’s drink.

“Tell him to get lost. He’s bugging everyone.”

“Did you know, he called me a ‘tornado.’” Penny moves a chair and pauses. “Why would you call someone a tornado? That doesn’t sound like a compliment.”

“Maybe it’s American? Ask Keris, I make her translate all the American things for me.”

“But tornadoes are destructive,” Penny continues, shoving tables as she walks. “They kill people. Whoever heard of a lover like a tornado? You’re supposed to call people rainbows or sunbeams or stars in a moonlit sky or something.”

“Did you just say ‘lover?’”

“And what is with that jacket he wears?” she continues, ignoring me. “It’s covered in pins and patches. Like, okay, we get it,  _ you travel _ .” She puts her hands on her hips and huffs a strand of curly hair out of her face. “No need to rub it in. He looks like a beatnik.”

“A beatnik.”

“And he wears grandpa glasses.”

“Oh,” I say, dodging a stray chair that Pen is waving. “I kind of like the glasses.”

“Well then  _ you _ date him,” Penny snarls, stealing my towel to wipe down a clean booth. “It’s a perfect match, you can spend your life explaining football to him and exchanging Baz conspiracies.”

“No offence, Simon, you’re a real cute guy, but, uh, not my type.”

Penny and I spin in unison at the voice behind us, to see Shepard standing in the doorway of the pub, a book bag over one shoulder and a wide grin on his face.

“For the record, tornados are one of the fiercest and most beautiful natural wonders,” he says, grin never dropping. “And I got most of my pins off of Etsy.”

“Well, that’s just—” Penny starts, stumbling. “That’s very—” She huffs. “Good for you. Simon, I’m taking my break.”

“Er.” I don’t pay her to help out with match days. It’s not like she’s got a government mandated thirty, but okay. I turn back to Shepard. “Hey man. What can I do for you?”

“I’ve come to watch the match!” he proclaims, dragging his bookbag forward and pulling out his laptop. “I’ve been assigned to live tweet it.”

“Oh,” I say, nodding. That’s gonna go awful. He’s going to spend the whole time asking me questions.

He goes to the corner of the bar where Baz sat the other day and sets up his laptop. It’s covered in stickers, one of which looks to be of Bigfoot. Blimey. How the hell did he get into covering football?

“Will Baz be in tonight to watch?” Shepard asks, setting up his mouse and pulling out a beaten up notebook.

“No,” I say immediately. “Baz never comes round here.”

From the corner, Penny raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, right, right,” Shep says, ducking his head. “My bad. I was thinking of Chaz.”

Penny chokes on her water.

“Penny, did Simon tell you I’m trying to get Baz Pitch on my podcast?” Shep asks, peering past me. “I’d love to interview him. Not about the injury thing, just in general, you know. I’m trying to find untold football stories. Human interest angles. Ask the unspoken questions.”

“You don’t say,” Penny says, her face pinched.

“Yup,” Shep continues happily. “I’ve got a good feeling about Baz Pitch, I think he’d make a great story.”

“Look, Baz isn’t a story,” I say, my voice coming out like a bit of a bark. “He’s just off on injury, living his life, trying not to get bothered. And this pub has got zero tolerance for harassment.”

Shep blinks, his smile sliding a bit.

“Right,” he says, nodding slowly. “Message received.” He taps his keyboard. “Say, are you serving food yet?”

Penny is giving me looks, and I don’t even need to hear her to know what she’s thinking: I’m acting like a berk.

And maybe I am. But it’s just—I dunno why Baz is here. But every time I start itching to really push it and question it, I think of him scowling in my kitchen, or sitting at the bar, laughing at the match. I dunno what’s up with him, but I want him here, so I can keep an eye on him, and not bunking off back to Mummers without notice.

That probably does make me a bit insane, actually, yeah.

“Yeah, mate,” I say with a sigh, pulling out my order slip. “What do you want?”

I take Shep’s order for a burger and head to the kitchen to give it to Nico, Penny trailing along behind me with one of those Looks on her face. Maybe Shep isn’t too far off—she can be a bit of a tornado when she gets something in her path.

“What was that about?” she asks the second the door closes behind us.

“What?” I ask, handing the slip off to Nico and taking the cigarette out of his mouth. I throw it in the sink and he reaches up silently to smack me in the ear. I smack his hand back.

“You got very aggressive with Shepard about the Baz thing.”

“You’re always aggressive with Shepard!”

“Yes, but I’m a tornado,” Penny says, crossing her arms. “You’re supposed to be sunny.”

“Look,” I say, my neck feeling hot, “for some reason, Baz is coming to the pub and hanging out, generally having a good time. No clue why, but he’s here. And if I want any hope of figuring out what he’s up to, I don’t need journalists chasing him away.”

Penny narrows her eyes.

“Are you sure you’re not just being blindly loyal to him because you’re obsessed with him, and getting sucked into the drama of his big mystery?” Nico snorts behind me.

“Pen—”

“Simon.”

“No, you don’t get it,” I say, shaking my head. “This is—football is about community, and team. And Baz isn’t just part of that because he’s a player, he’s part of that because he’s from here. And no matter what he’s up to, he’s a local boy, and he came home. We can’t let a journalist run him out because he’s asking too many questions.”

I look up from the tiles to see both Nico and Penny staring at me.

“Well fuck kid, that was rousing,” Nico grunts, turning back to the stove. “When’s the wedding?”

“Fuck off, Nico,” I snarl, turning my back to him and avoiding Penny’s eyes.

“Oh, Simon,” she says, reaching out to tug at my hair. “Sometimes I forget how loyal you are.”

“I’m not—”

“Come on, let’s go back out there and ask Shepard to explain why American football is so boring.”

**BAZ**

Fiona is waiting at our usual table, nursing a glass of red darker than her lipstick.

“Nice of you to show,” she says, putting the glass down. She gestures at a passing waiter for another. “I ordered you the chicken. You want a glass of white?”

I shake my head and tap my water glass. Unlike Fiona, I try not to start drinking before lunch.

Adjusting my pressed trousers, I shift in my seat. I wish we could have met somewhere less conspicuous. We’re regularly photographed meeting here, and then the tabloids always run something about it—am I having lunch with a family member, or negotiating a transfer to London? Having my aunt as my agent is sometimes wonderful and sometimes deeply frustrating. Meeting at a fancy restaurant in Mummers right before a game that I’m going to be missing for injury is just courting disaster.

“So how is the brain?” she asks, holding out a hand for the new glass of wine. It just appears there, like she’s an alcoholic wizard.

“The brain is fine,” I say curtly.

“Excellent, so you can go back to work then?”

I glare across the table at her.

“Not just yet. We negotiated four weeks, I plan to use the full four weeks.” I lean back as a waiter places a dish in front of me. “It’s barely been one.”

The waiter turns to her and Fiona shakes her head, tapping the wine glass. She’ll be drinking her lunch today, I suppose.

“Yeah, I know. Can’t blame me for checking, though,” she says with a shrug, leaning forward. “Thought you may have changed your mind after missing the last game.”

“I did not. If anything, it further highlighted how much I need a rejuvenating break.”

Fiona raises one pierced eyebrow. I never know how she manages to make an eyebrow piercing look both classy and dangerous, but yet, she does. “Sitting around the shitty local pub and living in a dive is rejuvenating, huh?”

I take a sip of my water. “I’m seeing how the other half live. Weighing my options.”

“Well weigh them fast.” She reaches across and steals a green bean off my plate. “I get daily calls from the chairmen and leadership at MumU, asking if you’ve worked through your issues yet.”

My stomach churns.

“It’s been a week,” I repeat. “I’m weighing options.”

Fiona sighs.

“Look, boyo,” she says, lowering her voice and leaning in. “I know things have been rough. I know that whole situation with Sheep—”

“Lamb.”

“Whatever, it’s still a stupid name, and I have no desire to learn it.” She shakes her head. “I know it rattled you. Sent you spinning. But that’s life, Baz. You pick up and keep going, even if you’re heartbroken.”

“I am  _ not _ heartbroken,” I hiss, which isn’t even a lie. I’m not. I’m truly not. “And it didn’t rattle me. It just…” I look around, trying to find the words. “It made me realise how many things I’ve pushed off and ignored and not even questioned, all to keep playing football. And I just need some time to stop living the charade that is my life and think about it.”

Fiona’s face flickers.

“Baz—”

“I will make my decision at the end of the four weeks,” I say, cutting over her. “And when I do, will you support me?”

I look her right in the eyes and dare her to say no.

“Fuck, Baz, of course I will.” She reaches over and taps my hand, just once. “And MumU will too. For now. They’re still on board to work with you, if you decide to stay. Other teams, not so much.” She shakes her head and mutters something that sounds like a curse under her breath. “But there’s a window, and it’s closing. Take the four weeks, fine, but just remember how fickle this game is. The more you miss, the more press you’ll get, and people need to know you haven’t just bunked off to Ibiza.”

“You told me to keep a low profile.”

“Sometimes a low profile looks like abandonment.”

I sigh and run a finger down the bridge of my nose, then cross my legs.

“So what do you suggest?”

“Thinking faster,” she responds immediately. “But also, brainstorming ways to make sure that when you pop back up, people still want to support you. If we’re going to do this, it’s going to be huge. And we need to make sure people have got your back.”

I look away from her and take a bite of the chicken. It tastes dry and bland, like ash in my mouth.

She’s half right, half wrong. It’s not football that’s fickle. Football is never fickle: it’s sturdy and dependable, the same game it’s always been through all of history. No matter who you are or what you do or where you go, football is the same.

It’s people who are fickle. It’s people you can’t trust.

  
  



	9. CAUTION

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disruptive yoga, the return of Chaz, low-fat radio and a secret revealed. A charming lobotomy and northern smog. Not in those trousers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day four of isolation: we have run out of quirky introductions. Please just read this fanfic. There is a very good chapter coming tomorrow, but for now we must brave the grocery store.
> 
> By the way, have you heard the Mummers United FC Spotify playlist, **  
> [casuals and anthems](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7eN5urt3480HkIfvG4fHhN?si=9QWbNQMLSgmzRGSvW4Vpcg)  
>  **?
> 
> xx - Whole Bread Bathsheba

**SIMON**

In the pub business, you don’t get much time off. We’ve got mornings, sure, but in the winter everything is so rainy and grey that you don’t even want to be alive, no less going about your day.

So when there’s a morning like this—beautiful, warm, blue skies—and it falls on the one Monday a month I close, I like to enjoy it. I take Davey for a hike, I open my windows, do all my cleaning, put on the radio and sometimes even have a grill.

But it’s fucking hard to do any of that while Baz Pitch is in the next garden over wearing leggings with his bum up in the air.

I had been trying to be polite and ignore it, go about my business and give him privacy, but there’s a point where it’s nearly impossible. I kept stopping by the doors to the glass extension to watch he and Agatha twist themselves into all kinds of weird shapes.

It’s more than a man can take.

“Dave!” I call, whistling for the dog. He’s been sleeping upstairs on my bed, one eye cracked to watch for squirrels. I hear his feet hit the floor as he pounds downstairs.

“Good boy,” I say, leaning over to scratch behind his ear. “Need to go out?”

He does his little tap dance and glares up at me. I lean over, open the garden door, and then quickly retreat to the washer and begin to sort my shorts.

Doesn’t take even a minute.

“SNOW!”

Setting down the basket, I pop my head out the door.

“You say something, mate?”

“Come get your mongrel!” Baz shouts back, holding Davey by his collar while he jumps up and down and tries to get at Baz’s neck. I’ve really got no idea why he’s got such a vendetta against Baz, but it’s starting to seem a bit targeted.

“Oh, did he get loose again?” I ask, coming into the garden. “Sorry about that. He probably thought you were squirrels or something.”

“Do I look like a fucking squirrel?” Baz asks, seething. I glance at Agatha and then back to him.

“Well not in those trousers.”

Agatha snorts loudly.

“Simon, I heard you showed our game,” she says, bypassing Baz and coming over to the wall to lean against it. She’s got her blonde hair up in a bun and she’s wearing those flashy yoga clothes, the kind where even her jacket manages to be tight. “Thanks for that.”

“Not a problem,” I say, taking pity on Baz and reaching over to grab Davey by his collar so I can scoop him up and over the fence. “I’m going to show next week’s, too. Still waiting on a scarf, though.”

“Oh, shoot, sorry. I left it at my flat.” She makes a face. “I’ll bring it by next time we come by the pub.”

I try real hard not to look too interested at this. So she doesn’t live with Baz, then. They’re not serious enough to live together. Interesting. And they plan to come back to the Goat.

“Wellbelove,” Baz says, a warning note in his voice, but she waves him off. Baz crosses his arms and glares at me. Not a normal Baz glare, like I’m coming to appreciate and understand, but a real one. A real “fuck off and die now, Snow” kind of glare.

My neck goes hot. I guess I am interrupting them. I guess he’s really into yoga. Never figured.

“Right, well, I’ll take Davey inside and let you two get back to your, er….” I gesture at Baz’s trousers. “Activities.”

“Do you do yoga?” Agatha asks, her voice bright. Behind her, Baz’s eyes get wide. He starts shaking his head.

“Er—”

“It’s _incredible_ for stress relief,” Agatha says, putting a hand on my garden wall and lifting herself over. She looks about light as air when she moves. “You look like you carry a lot of stress. Have you tried?”

“Er—”

“Baz, come here, help me show Simon how to hold his shoulders.”

I lock eyes with Baz, and I swear he looks almost as scared as I feel.

***

“No, that’s—no, hold it higher.”

“I don’t think blokes are meant to stretch like this,” I squeak, struggling to keep my leg up. Next to me, Baz is balancing on one leg, his bum right in my fucking face. It’s just right fucking there. I can’t even look away from it.

His leg is shaking, though. Just a bit. It makes me feel better. Perfect bloody Baz Pitch can’t keep his leg up either.

“How do you even walk without falling over?” Agatha says, shaking her head as she circles us. Suddenly I don’t like Agatha anymore, at all. She’s turned into some kind of scary Russian drill sergeant, and she actually smacked Baz on the back to get him to straighten up a minute ago. I’m terrified she’s going to hit me next.

“Alright, now bring your foot up, above your knee.”

“Wellbelove—”

“You can go higher, don’t give me that,” she snaps. “Higher. Higher. Simon, are you even trying?”

“I’m trying not to kill myself,” I mutter, wobbling on one leg. Baz makes a noise that sounds like a laugh.

“Straighten your leg.”

“I’m trying, really, I’m trying—” I grunt and try to stretch out my leg, but my balance is absolutely fucked, and I tip sideways, arms pinwheeling. Baz shoots out a hand to grab me, but he’s on one leg too, so instead of balancing me, I just end up dragging him down with me.

“Unf,” he grunts as I land on top of him, my arm wedged underneath him, his elbow in my gut. 

“Fuck, sorry,” I mutter, trying to get up without putting hands places where hands should not go. I end up having to grab his upper arm to balance.

His fucking _bicep_ flexes under me.

“Er—” I mutter, scrambling to my feet. I can feel my face burning up. “You okay?”

Baz glares up at me from the ground and blows a lock of black hair out of his eyes. It's not fair. Gravity doesn't work like that. How does his hair defy gravity like that?

“Perfect,” he says. “Help me up, Snow.”

“Right. Sorry, here.” I hold out my hand for him and he grabs it, his long fingers wrapping around my wrist.

I make the mistake of making eye contact.

His eyes are that colour of grey that the sky gets some days, when everything is cloudy and dim and the grey fades into the smudgy black buildings on the horizon, and life is just a washed out haze.

Northern smog. His eyes are just about as grey as northern smog.

Nobody probably wants their eyes compared to smog. That was sort of shit. Dunno what's wrong with me.

Pulling my gaze away, I grip his hand tighter and pull him up.

“Listen, I don’t think yoga is for me,” I say, turning back to Agatha. I regret pretty much every action that brought me here today. I shouldn't have acted rashly and let Davey out. I could be inside right now, folding my freshly laundered pants, not mucking about pulling my hamstring and thinking about smog.

There’s a mean snort from behind us, and I don't even need to turn to know who it is.

“Simon, I think that’s a massive understatement,” Penny says, her arms folded across her chest as she leans against the door of my extension. Next to her is Shepard.

My gut fucking drops out. Ohhhhhhh fuck.

“I liked the landing. Very smooth,” Shep says with a grin. “Afternoon, everyone. Simon. Agatha, great to see you again. Baz.”

“Er,” I say, exchanging glances with Baz. Fuck, I hope he doesn’t think I did this on purpose. He’s gone very, very still, like he thinks if he just stands there no one will notice him. “What are you doing here?”

“Well I was showing Shepard around town and trying to bore him to death,” Penny says, raising one eyebrow. “And I thought I’d pop in and unload him on you a bit. Didn’t expect to find you doing yoga with Baz Pitch.”

“Er, no, Pen, you’re mistaken,” I say, shaking my head quickly. “This is Chaz. Remember? You know Chaz.”

Penny stares at me. So does Agatha.

“Uh—” Penny starts, frowning, but Agatha pushes forward.

“I’m sorry, what?” she says, her mouth pulling up into some kind of feral smile. “Who the hell is Chaz?”

“This is Chaz,” I say, pointing at Baz. “C’mon, you all know Chaz. From Scotland.”

I look to Baz for support, but he’s just crossed his arms and is staring off in the distance, looking like we’re all dirt under his shoe.

“No offence, Simon, because you’re trying so hard, and I respect that so much,” Shep says, walking into the garden to clap me on the shoulder, “but I know Chaz is fake.”

“Can we circle back to the you doing yoga with Baz thing?” Penny asks, tilting her head. She pauses in front of Agatha. “Hi. I’m Penelope Bunce. I’m Simon’s keeper.”

Agatha shakes her hand.

“Agatha Wellbelove. I’m Baz’s very reluctant friend.”

Friend? _Friend_? I stare at Baz, but he doesn’t seem at all bothered by his girlfriend dismissing him.

Friend? Well. Maybe he's not blinking because that's their cover story. Maybe they say this all the time. This doesn't mean anything.

Shepard raises his hand.

“I’m Shepard, from Omaha. Can someone tell me why Baz Pitch is in Simon’s yard doing yoga, instead of away to Westham with the rest of his teammates?”

“You can’t print anything about this,” I say immediately. I know when to give up a fight. Or at least, when to re-attack. “This is private property. You didn’t see anything here.” I stare at Baz again, my hands getting sweaty. Fuck, my heart is racing. “Seriously, Shep, as a friend. You gotta go.”

**BAZ**

Maybe if I glare at this American hard enough, he’ll be terrified of my imposing dismissiveness and leave me alone.

“Oh, my God, this is ridiculous,” Wellbelove says, taking one look at my face and sighing. “You’re all acting like this is some huge conspiracy.” She turns to the American and flicks her hair out of her eyes. “Off the record, Baz is just taking a month off.”

“Right,” Snow says, squaring his jaw and nodding. He's standing like a pit bull, chest barreled out. “For injury.”

“Uh,” Wellbelove says, pausing a minute too long. I want to self combust. “Sure.”

Snow narrows his eyes and then suddenly rounds on me. “Are you injured? I thought you were off for a concussion. Are you not actually hurt?” All of a sudden his face changes. “Oh, God, are you actually retiring? Or—” he takes a breath and I see true fear behind his eyes, “transferring?”

I stare at Wellbelove, trying to kill her with my glare. This is her fault. She made me do yoga. She made me come to Snow’s garden. This is all her fault.

“Oh, just tell them about your weird plot before Simon gets sick,” Wellbelove says with a sigh, collapsing into one of Snow’s garden chairs. I don’t know why he has garden chairs; it’s impossible to imagine him ever having a garden party, or any form of get together worthy of having garden chairs. Especially nice ones like this. Sensible black iron.

I suppose they probably came with the house.

I stare at the chairs a moment longer, glaring at it and hoping maybe they'll come to life and strangle me and save me from this conversation.

“There’s no pressure,” says Snow’s friend. Bunce, I think she said the other day. “But I will say, I’m pretty sure Simon would rather stab himself than leak your secrets. And Shepard doesn’t know enough about football to be a creditable source for any gossip.” Snow’s face turns a bright right, while Shepard nods. “And I frankly don’t care.”

I’ve been shoved into a corner. I look sideways at Snow. He’s trying very hard not to look at me, but his face is stuck in an expression that looks like he’s about to get sick, all scrunched up and huffy and on the verge of working himself up.

He does seem trustworthy. When he’s not looking constipated, that is. He has that kind of golden, warm ray of sun-type look about him that makes him look like he’s there to save the day and keep your secrets. Not that I'm giving him my secrets. No one gets my secrets. Or at least, not all of them.

Shifting, I cross my arms and glance back toward my depressing middle-terrace.

“I want something from Mummers,” I say carefully, shooting a glare at Wellbelove to make sure she doesn’t decide to elaborate. “And I’m taking this time to weigh my options and determine my path.” I brush my hair away from my face. “I negotiated a month off to show them what they would be missing, and so I can have time to weigh my options.”

“Oh, thank God,” Snow says, collapsing into one of the empty garden chairs. Bunce and the American follow suit. “At least now I know you haven’t just gone round the bend. Or worse, are in talks with a different team.”

“I’m not ruling that out,” I say quickly, even though I know it’s not an option. Not really. Other teams will take me in a heartbeat, but no one will take me on my terms. Only MumU. They need me. Their brand and their sponsorships and their fancy new stadium need me. It's just a question of how long.

“So, let me get this straight,” the American says, leaning forward to brace his arms on his elbows. “You took some time to weigh your options, and are trying to leverage your popularity and skill against the club to get something you want?”

I glance at Wellbelove.

“Essentially.”

“What do you want?” Bunce asks. I see Snow poke at her, but she slaps his hand away.

“Immaterial,” I say dismissively. “And none of your business.”

“You, my friend, need a campaign,” the American says, snapping his fingers. “Come on my podcast.”

“I’d rather play for Tottenham,” I deadpan. Snow snorts.

“I’m serious,” the American says. “Look, it would be great for your PR. You could come on and talk about anything, paint your narrative exactly how you want it. It would be huge press for you." He gets a proud look on his face. "My podcast is sponsored by the BBC.”

“Is it really?” Bunce says, surprised. “Whenever Simon mentioned it, I just assumed you recorded it in your basement or something.”

“No, I work for the BBC. Sort of. I'm a freelancer,” the American says, nonplussed. “Didn’t you read my article?”

Bunce looks away.

“Immaterial,” she echos. 

“Fascinating as this is,” I cut in, “I’m not going on your podcast.”

“I don’t know, Baz,” Wellbelove says, moving her hand so I can come and lean against the arm of her chair. “It could be a good idea. You could control the story.”

“So it’s something controversial,” Bunce says, her voice loud, her eyes lighting up like she’s just stumbled on some grand truth. “It’s something big.”

“ _That’s_ why we can’t talk about it!” Snow chimes in, way too eager.

“Exactly!” Bunce says. “Because it would be a big risk for the team.”

“Psh, there’s nothing Baz could do that Mummers wouldn’t support,” Snow says, waving her off. “He basically made MumU. They haven’t had a player like him since Merlin, back in ‘56.” I love how he’s talking as though I’m not even here. (And also I’m a far better player than Merlin McArthur ever was.)

"He could be a drug addict," Bunce says. Snow waves a hand.

"Not the first."

"He could be a serial killer."

“Pretty sure the Chairmen would support him and find a way to turn it into a poster.”

Wellbelove and I exchange a glance.

Snow’s right. I could have an addiction, I could have a secret family, I could cause an international scandal, and MumU would support me in a heartbeat, with flying colours and a promotional campaign. Anything.

Anything except being gay.

“As much as I appreciate this rampant speculation,” I say, standing up and picking imaginary dirt off my sleeve, “it’s all a moot point. I have things under control, and it’s my business. And I will not be on a podcast. They’re just low-fat radio.” I turn to Wellbelove. “This has been a charming lobotomy, but I have to go train now. Excuse me.”

I nod at the group and head back to the wall dividing the gardens and pull myself over it without looking back, walking powerfully and coolly into my house and up my stairs until I’m alone in my bathroom and can sink onto the floor of my shower.

Maybe a concussion would have been better than this.


	10. TOO GOOD TO GO DOWN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crumbling churches, rousing speeches, confessions and horrible origin stories. Gleeful sins and desecrations. One dramatic motherfucker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back welcome back! Thank you everyone for reading and commenting, it means the world. We are coming up on our personal favourite run of chapters here and we can't wait for you all to read (: Enjoy, stay safe, stay inside!
> 
> xx - Ban & Bread

**BAZ**

I hit the buzzer again, for the sixth time, waiting for Dev or Niall to answer the bloody door.

It’s bad form to show up this early without notice, but I couldn’t sleep and my house is so _empty_. Even working out wasn’t keeping me from the restless feeling in my stomach. 

And besides, it’s boring training by myself every day. Niall’s a moderately active type. I can always get him to run with me.

I ring the buzzer again a split second before the door swings open and Niall blinks at me from sleepy eyes. His hair is mussed around his head, sticking in all directions, and he’s still in his pyjamas.

“Baz?” he croaks, squinting again. “Everything alright? It’s six-thirty.”

“I know,” I say, shaking my head. “I can’t believe you’re still in bed.”

“Who is it?” comes Dev’s bleary shout from inside the house. Down the hall, it sounds like. “Unless someone’s dying, tell them to fuck off and come back to bed, love.”

Niall and I go very, very still. His eyes are huge and wide, his mouth starting to open into an ‘o’ shape.

“It’s Baz,” he calls, finally, not looking away from me.

There’s a thunk and a slam and the sound of Dev running down the hallway.

“Baz,” he says, sliding into the doorway. He’s shirtless. I stare over his shoulder so I don’t have to look directly at him. “Is everything—are you—look, I can explain.”

“It’s fine,” I say, shaking my head, still not looking at him. “I was just passing on my run and wanted to tell you that my mother has invited everyone to lunch next weekend. That’s all.” I turn away.

“Baz,” Dev says, reaching out to grab my arm. “Wait. Hold on. We were going to tell you, I swear—”

“It’s fine,” I say again, shrugging his hand off. I school my voice as cool and uninterested as I possibly can. “I’m not sure why you’re being so dramatic, really.” I turn away, already heading down the steps. “See you both next Sunday.”

“Baz, mate—” Niall says, but I’m already jogging down the pavement, crossing the street and heading back down their lane.

Dev and Niall are together.

Dev and Niall call each other ‘love’ and ask each other to come back to bed. And they’ve been hiding it from me.

Why would they hide that? They have no reason to hide it. Everyone would accept them. They wouldn’t be fired. Their families would be happy. They have no reason to hide it.

I run faster, rounding the village green, cutting up toward the lane that leads out of Mummers, the long stretch of road that heads toward the fields and sparse woods between the village and highway. The morning cold whips at my face, stings my eyes, slaps my nose and makes my breath sharp and brittle, but I keep going.

They could just tell people. They have no idea how _lucky_ they are. They could just tell people. They have each other, and they could tell people.

Maybe they have told people. Maybe everyone knows but me.

My pace picks up, carrying me across the bridge, over the river, further down the road. Coming around the bend, I see a figure walking just a few yards ahead of me, a bouncing dog at his side.

Snow looks over his shoulder at the sound of my feet and slows, his face stretched into a grin as he waits in place. He’s wearing a MumU beanie and scarf.

“Morning!” he calls. My feet start to slow. I didn’t even tell them to. They just did it.

“Morning.” My voice is terse, caught between breaths. It comes out like a bark.

I stop running.

“Where you heading?” Snow asks, winding his mutt’s leash around his hand to keep the dog in place. He’s behaving today, though. He sniffs at my trainers and then sits down to glare at me.

“I don’t know,” I say, before I can consider lying. “I’m just running.”

Snow stares at me for a long moment, his grin slipping away into a frown.

“Wanna walk instead?”

I stare down at the leash in his hand, and the road beneath him, and the grey chill of the morning, and look back up into his eyes. They’re very blue.

“Fine,” I say, before I’ve formed the decision to do so.

***

“Right, but did you see him in the last match? They had him in the wrong spot,” Snow says, throwing his arm out wide as he gesticulates wildly. “Why would you have a player like him and misplace him?”

“Lots of reasons,” I say, stretching my legs out in front of me and leaning back against the bench. “They could be trying him in a new position, or trying a new attack. Or maybe they’ve negotiated with the player currently in that spot and don’t want to move him out.”

Snow makes a disgruntled noise and shrugs.

“Or maybe the manager is just shit,” I say, watching as a small smile tugs at Snow’s mouth.

I look away from him and out over the landscape. We’ve walked so far that we’ve popped out over the large hill that overlooks the village, the one with all the ugly cell towers, and emerged on the other side in front of St. Gertrude’s of the Weeping Tower.

I’ve never actually been inside the church, as I had always assumed it was a largely-closed crumbling ruin, but there’s a bulletin on the front reading the service times for the week.

Snow’s dog has been freed from his leash and romps through the tidy green gated cemetery to the side of the church, committing gleeful sins and indiscretions.

“Look,” Snow says suddenly, his voice low and cagey. “Are you okay? It seems like something’s up.”

“Why would you think that?” I ask, shifting away from him slightly.

“Because you’re being all…” he trails off and makes a face. “Broody.”

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye and give him a withering look, but it bounces off.

“Did you know Dev and Niall are a couple?” I ask, turning to face Snow again so I can look him dead in the eyes. It occurs to me suddenly, sharply, that I probably shouldn’t have said something. They’ve never said anything about me.

Snow’s face breaks open.

“Really? No shit. Good for Niall,” Snow says, making a satisfied noise.

“Good for Niall?” I sputter. “What? Why good for Niall?”

“Well, he’s been mad for Dev for years,” Snow says, frowning. “Since we were kids. Everyone’s known. It’s like the worst kept secret round here.”

“ _Everyone_ knows?” I repeat, my jaw working. “That’s impossible. How does everyone know?”

Snow shrugs. “Small village. Things get around. I didn’t know they were together, though. That must be new. Good for them.” He pauses. “Dev’s a dick, but he’s good-looking enough. Glad they found each other.”

I stare at Snow, speechless.

“I didn’t know.” My voice comes out too quiet. Muffled. Like I’m not actually here, I’m actually locked in a box, buried under the earth, and my voice is floating up from one of the graves surrounding us.

“Oh,” Snow says, his forehead ridging, his frown getting deeper. “They probably didn’t want to bother you. With everything going on, you know. With your, er. Stuff.” He waves his hand at me. “Wouldn’t take it personally.”

“Why are they keeping it a secret?” It comes out bitter. I’m bitter, and I’m not even trying to hide it. “What do they have to lose? They could tell everyone.”

Snow is starting to look suspicious.

“I dunno,” he says slowly. “Maybe they wanted to keep it private if it’s new?” He narrows his eyes. “I don’t think this is about Dev and Niall, is it?”

I stand up from the bench very quickly. Snow stays seated; when I turn, half of him is in the shadow cast by the church, the other half blinking in the bright and cold November sunlight.

“I’m gay,” I say. The words come out along with my visible breath, hanging in the air. “I’m gay, and I want to come out.”

  
  


**SIMON**

Well fuck me.

Baz turns away and glares down the hill and I just stare at him, speechless. My mind is blanking out a bit, to be honest. Going fuzzy around the edges like a TV.

“Oh,” I say finally. “Alright, then.”

Baz whirls on me, his eyes blazing.

“Yes, alright, then,” he snaps. “Christ, Snow, I have _no_ idea why I’ve told you. You couldn’t possibly understand this. Maybe I am concussed.” He scoffs. “ _Alright, then_.”

“What?” I ask, indignant. “What do you want me to say? I don’t give a shit.”

Baz makes an ugly snort.

“Yes, of course you don’t.” He rolls his eyes. “Everyone cares, Snow. Everyone will care. I would be the first at my level to ever come out. Everyone will give one huge, colossal shit if they find out.”

“Well fuck them,” I say with a shrug. “But I don’t care. Serious.” 

I think about telling him. How sometimes I wonder if I—

Nah.

“So this is what you’re trying to negotiate?” I ask, tilting my head to the side. “You want to come out, and want Mummers to keep you.”

“Essentially,” Baz says, turning away from me. He shivers and pulls his arms against himself. He’s too skinny. How does he keep warm in the winter? He’s got no fat.

“What will you do if they say no?” I ask carefully. Try to keep my voice neutral. So he doesn’t think I’m too invested.

Baz sighs.

“I don’t know.” He turns and collapses onto the bench next to me and he looks so miserable that I want to just...I dunno, grab him and push some happiness into him. “The game is dead for me either way.”

My stomach does a weird kind of karate chop against my lungs.

“Why?”

“As I see it, I have two choices,” he says, his voice sharp. “Either I come out and face fan backlash and get maybe a year, two, out of Mummers, filled with drama and crisis before they cut me or I throw in the towel. Or I don’t come out and I stay in the Premier League and dedicate my life to football and acknowledge that I’ll never be able to be with someone.”

“Well, come on now,” I say, making a choked sort of noise. “That doesn’t have to be the case. You could just keep it quiet.”

Baz turns his gaze on me, and it’s blazing.

“No, I couldn’t,” he says. He sounds shattered. “I wouldn’t.”

My lungs start karate chopping my heart.

“Oh.”

“Yes,” Baz says with a sigh. “Oh.” He leans back against the bench, so close that our shoulders touch, and crosses his legs over each other. Even in Adidas training trackies he manages to move gracefully.

“There was...someone,” he says, his voice quiet. My stomach churns. I don’t know why it felt okay to imagine him dating Agatha, but the idea of him dating some mystery man has my heart beating a bit too fast.

“Yeah?” I say, trying hard not to clear my throat and ruin whatever is happening here by sounding like Davey when he hacks up his dinner.

“He was older. More established in life. You know how it is.” I don’t, but I nod. “He wanted me to be with him.”

I swallow.

“Sounds serious.”

Baz shakes his head. “No, not really. Not at all, actually. It was a passing thing, which is why I said no. I don’t like the idea of hiding, and I’m not about to disrupt my life for someone I wasn’t serious about.” He tucks his hair behind his ear. “But it got me thinking. And when I went back to playing, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Every game felt like I was calling it in.”

“So you regretted saying no, then?” My voice is so fucking squeaky, Jesus Christ.

“No, not at all. But I regretted that I wouldn’t even consider it. And it started to make me hate football. I lost all my passion for it. It became just a job.” He huffs. “And I’m not so pathetic and needy that I’m going to sacrifice the rest of my life for employment.”

We sit silently for a bit, because honestly, I’ve got no idea what to say to that. I’m not very good with words. Baz doesn’t seem to mind though—he just stares off down the hill, not acting like he expects an answer.

But the silence is getting to me a bit.

“I’ve worked at the Goat since I was sixteen, right?” I say, feeling like a berk. “I was doing errands for Ebb before then, even, always helping out, because she’d taken me in after my Dad pulled his bullshit, and she’d always looked out for me. And it was just, you know, a job. Just a thing I did, but I liked showing up because I liked being there with Ebb. Liked keeping her company and stuff.”

Baz’s eyebrow goes up just slightly, but he doesn’t say anything.

“When she died—” I start, then pause. I clear my throat and hunch my shoulders. “When she died, she left me the pub, and at first I was like ‘I don’t want this.’ Because it was shit, you know? I got handed a pub and all this responsibility and I didn’t know what I was doing, and the only reason I’d worked there for so long was gone. She’d—she’d died.”

“I always got the impression you love your job,” Baz says evenly, his voice a bit quiet. In the shadow of the church, I can see his breath when he talks.

“Yeah, I do. But I had to get there.” I take a deep breath and try real hard not to blush at what I’m about to say. “I’ve always—I’ve always wanted to fit into things, you know? Have a community, I guess. And I’d been in Manchester on a match day and popped into a pub for lunch and seen the supporters there and it was just incredible. These people had a _purpose_ and a _drive_ and they all loved football so much, just as much as I did.”

“Are you trying to tell me you started the MumU section because of Manchester?” Baz asks, horrified. “That’s a terrible origin story. That’s awful.”

“Shut up,” I say, nudging him with my elbow. “What I’m getting at is that I found something I loved, I found that purpose, and I brought it into the pub. And now I love my job. I love the community. I love—I love that Ebb would have loved it.”

“I used to love football. At the beginning, especially, before the money and we moved up the tables, everything was just...fun.” Baz’s mouth quirks into a bitter smile. “But now there’s just so much pressure to make every game bigger and larger and more expensive. There are expectations.”

“Well, you’re Baz Pitch,” I say, feeling a bit like the world’s biggest idiot. “You’ve always defied expectations.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Baz’s face hardens into a line, all scowls and eyebrows and glares.

“That’s because I have to,” he bites out. “I’m supposed to be great. I’m supposed to want to be great.”

He stands up from the bench and strides over to the door of the church, pretending to inspect the service times. I doubt he’s actually interested—I can’t imagine Baz in a church. He’s like me: he worships at the pitch.

“When you’re me,” he says, spinning, “and you have the skills that I have, you have to exceed expectations, every time. That’s the new expectation. You’re not supposed to settle.”

“Well fuck that,” I say, getting up to follow him. I kick some gravel that’s strayed from the path and into the grass. “Fuck big plans and big ideas. You’re Baz fucking Pitch.”

“Yes, I know,” he says, annoyed and haughty as fuck.

“No,” I growl, because he’s not getting it. “You’re _Baz Pitch_. Fuck what people expect. Choose your own destiny. Choose your own happiness.”

Baz gazes at me evenly, but I can’t meet his eyes. He’s facing the sun, the light of it on his face and making his eyes glow and his olive skin look like summer. Like late August, the start of the season. The best time of year.

“The problem, Snow,” he says, sounding so sad, “is that I don’t know what happiness is.”

He’s such a dramatic motherfucker.

“Well, we’re gonna figure it out,” I say, kicking his shin. “And then you’re gonna fucking chase it.”


	11. APPEARANCE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boots full of scarves, Bovril and horrible driving. A well-appointed bathroom and the 1883 FA Cup final. Did you hear Baz Pitch is signing in Spain?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back everyone! Thanks as always for reading--it's been a delight watching the comments come in, and we appreciate everyone so much for keeping us company during quarantine! We'll be taking a posting break over the weekend, but we'll be back next week :)
> 
> xx - Ban & Bread

**SIMON**

Davey starts barking while I’m still drying off and putting on my pants.

“Come on in!” I shout down the stairs to whoever just rang the buzzer. It’s either Pen or Gareth or _maybe_ Keris, and they can all handle Davey. Well, Gareth’s not great with him. But he’s not terrible.

The door creaks open and a voice floats upstairs.

“I’d really rather not,” Baz yells. I nearly hit my head on my sink and slip on the wet floor.

“Fuck,” I mutter, grabbing my shower curtain for support. “Fuck. Fuck.”

The curtain pulls loose and I land on my back with a thud and a grunt.

“Snow?” Baz yells. The barking gets louder, and I can tell he’s just walked in the house. “Did you kill yourself up there?”

“I’m fine!” I squeak, pulling myself up and grabbing at my towel. Fuck, please don’t let Baz Pitch come up here while I’m lying half-naked on my lav floor.

“You sound like you just concussed yourself.” The stairs squeak, and I scramble to my feet.

“Baz, seriously, I’m fine, I—”

I pause as Baz stops outside my bathroom door and stares. The flush that’s been working on my face spreads up my neck, into my ears, and it’s so much worse, _so much worse_ because I know my chest does this God-awful slap-rash type thing when I’m embarrassed sometimes, and I’m literally standing here in a towel, so he can see it all, can see all the red splotch, and he won’t stop _staring_.

“Er—” I say. “Hi.”

Baz startles, like he’s just been snapped out of something, but his eyes stay huge.

“Er—”

“Your bathroom is fucking _huge_ ,” he snarls, stepping inside. I scramble back. “I can’t even stand up straight in my bathroom, but you have clearance. And a sunlight?” He pokes at the nice tile Ebb and I put up a few summers ago. “What the _fuck_ , Snow?”

“Right, okay,” I say, gripping my towel for dear life. “Out.”

“What?”

“Out!” I bark, putting a hand on his chest and pushing him backwards. “Can’t a man fucking dress without you ogling my windows? Out.”

“Where did you get those tiles—” he starts to ask as I close the bathroom door.

Fuck. I didn’t bring clean clothes in with me. Fuck.

I dress quickly in my sleep t-shirt (which is a bloody commemorative MumU shirt) and keep my towel clenched tight around my waist as I barrel out, past Baz, and into my bedroom. He fucking follows me.

“Oh, you’ve cleaned,” he drawls, leaning against the doorway. “Did you finally need to use one of the sixteen mugs you were storing up here?”

I grab a pair of jeans from the laundry, turn my back to Baz, and start pulling them on.

“When I said out I sort of meant go downstairs,” I snarl. “You looking for a fucking show or something?” I turn on him as I jump a bit to shake out my boxers and do up my fly. Baz is just staring at me, one eyebrow up, looking like he’s having the time of his fucking life.

“What?” I ask again, petulant. This has to have been the most embarrassing five minutes of my life.

“Nothing,” Baz says, eyebrow still raised.

“Liar,” I mutter, looking for socks.

“I’m just wondering: do you have any clothes that don’t have my name on them?”

“What—” I straighten up and the blood drains from my face as I look over my shoulder at the mirror behind me. Ah, fuck me. Fuck my life. The back of my bloody shirt says PITCH - 9.

“I’m not wearing it, you gobshite,” I say, abandoning my hunt for socks and pulling the shirt over my head and throwing it in the corner. “It’s just what I slept in and someone barged into my bathroom before I could get clean clothes.”

“You sleep in my kit?” he asks, the other eyebrow getting in on the action.

“Fuck you, Chaz,” I mutter, grabbing another shirt and pulling it on. It’s not MumU—exactly. It’s just green. And with a purple patch. It’s fine. His name isn’t on it.

“Not that,” Baz says, shaking his head. “Do you have anything black? Or white? Let’s go for neutral colours.”

“Uh…” I pull out a black tee I wear to bartend sometimes and pull it on. It’s not my favourite—it’s a bit too tight and a bit too faded, but it’ll do. “Why does it matter?”

Baz reaches in his pocket and pulls out two ticket stubs and flicks them between his long fingers like a card dealer.

“Because we’re going to a game, Snow, and we can’t be caught dead in offending colours.”

***

I’m nearly itching the whole drive.

I still don’t know how Baz managed to convince me to do this—to take off a whole day from the pub—a Saturday, of all things—to drive with him to bloody Newcastle upon Tyne.

“He historically has underperformed,” Baz is saying, smacking the wheel with his hand. “He doesn’t belong at this level.”

“You’re wrong,” I retort, shaking my head and staring out the window as we zoom down the A1. It would have been faster to drive to bloody Scotland.

“I’m wrong?” Baz sputters, swerving way too quickly into the next lane over, not even using his indicator. “How am I wrong?”

“He plays beautiful football,” I say with a shrug. “Like, I know he’s a prick, but his form is fit as hell. And he’s everywhere. You never, ever see him coming.”

“He’s—” Baz sputters. “This is—Goblin Gyeon is a _mouth breather_ , Snow. He looks like a Korean pop star.”

“Not sure why that's bad.”

“He’s not a good player!” Baz exclaims. “I cannot believe—he’s really your second? You would really put him in a dream team after me?”

“You sound like a jealous twat.”

“ _Goblin Gyeon_ ,” Baz mutters, shaking his head.

“He’s fast,” I say, grinning.

“No, I’m fast,” Baz argues. Christ, he’s really worked up about this. “Goblin is just...just…”

“How much longer?”

Baz glares at me out of the corner of his eye, shoves the car into a higher gear and cuts off half of traffic as he merges across the motorway like a madman.

“Right,” I say, feeling a bit sick. “Next time, I’m driving.”

“ _Goblin Gyeon_ ,” Baz mutters darkly. I turn my head to the window and try not to beef it.

It feels like an age before we get into town and Baz heads toward a car park that must be eons from St. James’ Park.

“You sure you’re okay to walk around like this?” I ask, getting out of the passenger side and shaking out my limbs. My legs feel like fucking jelly. I hate car rides.

Baz leans over into the backseat for a moment before he gets out, wearing a hoodie jacket, a scarf, and a beanie.

He hands me a Newcastle hat.

“No way,” I say shaking my head. “Not a chance.”

“Snow.”

“You support _Newcastle_?” I ask, horrified. “Why would you—”

“Just put on the bloody hat,” Baz snaps, shoving it at me. “It’s a disguise.”

I scoff in disgust. “Fine.”

I slam the traitorous fucking hat onto my head and follow Baz as he heads off, weaving through crowds heading toward the stadium, wondering just why exactly he’s dragged me out here.

Not that I’m complaining. I’ll never say no to a game, and especially not a day out with Baz, but. Still. For a bloke so worried about being seen out in public, it’s a bit suspicious that he’s literally dragged me to a Premiership match in our backyard.

He hands off the tickets and walks me through the stadium with so much confidence that I suspect he has to have done this before. He’s too familiar with where everything is, and there’s no reason he’d know the best beer stand from being here as a player.

Makes me wonder how many matches Baz sneaks into.

I wonder if he’s got scarves for every club in the boot of his car.

He keeps his head down while we wait in line for food. He orders a burger and beer, which surprises me, because I’d have expected him to make a fuss till he could get salad or white wine or something, and I get a sausage roll and a cup of Bovril.

Baz takes one look at it and dry heaves.

“Leave Bovril alone,” I glare, standing in front of him to block him from most of the crowds as we stand together so Baz can finish his beer before we get into the stands.

“You _are_ Bovril,” he says, shaking his head and taking a tiny bite of his burger. It’s weirdly delicate. “How have I never seen this before.”

“Fuck you,” I say, dipping my roll into the tea. Baz looks like he actually may heave.

“God, I have to sit next to you now and you’re going to reek of beef.”

“Oi!” I say around a mouthful of food. “Keep it up, twigs, and I can bring this whole stadium down on you.”

Baz’s eyes narrow.

“You wouldn’t,” he grits out. I shrug.

“You feel like betting?”

Baz turns his back to me and faces the wall the whole time he finishes drinking his beer.

We’re still about an hour out when he finishes and we head toward our seats. Newcastle is out on the pitch, warming up, so no one pays attention to us as we step over feet and laps to get to our spot.

“What, no box seats?” I ask, grinning. He’s got us way up, mixed in with the speccies at the end of the supporters section. It’s where I’d usually sit, but still. I imagined he’d have some posh box or special section where he wouldn’t have to rub elbows with the fans. 

“Not today,” he says, edging past a large group of men who are shouting and laughing.

My grin gets bigger.

I love matches. Watching on TV is good fun, but nothing—nothing—compares to an actual match, the energy of the crowd, the excitement in the air. Everyone coming together. There are snatches of blokes already singing, kids running by, whole families set up in regular sections.

It’s infectious enough to make me almost forget this is a Newcastle match.

“Thanks for inviting me, by the way,” I say after we’ve settled and turned to watch the warm ups. Newcastle looks good—better than I’d probably give them credit for.

“Yes, well,” Baz says, sniffing and pulling his scarf tighter against the cold. “I’m following your advice. Trying to remember why I like this game, and all.”

“Right. You didn’t have to bring me with you, though.”

Baz burrows even further into his scarf.

“I know you don’t get to go to matches often,” he says dismissively. “That’s what it said in that ridiculous article about you, at least. I thought you might enjoy it.”

My chest throbs like Baz has just kicked a clean screamer into it. I try to tell it to shut the fuck up. I’m at a match, like a mate, with my favourite football player. My chest has got absolutely no right to be acting like this is anything else.

“Right, well.” I take a sip of Bovril and lean forward in the seat. “Who do you think is going to take it today?”

**BAZ**

“Fucking go!” Snow shouts, slamming his hand against his head. “You can—”

We both groan and turn away as the ball goes neatly over the net.

“And here you said you loathed Newcastle,” I say smugly, taking in Snow’s devastated expression. It immediately sharpens into a scowl.

I like how he does that—jumps from one huge emotion to the next, and lets it all play out on his face for anyone to see. It’s fascinating to chart his moods.

“Shut up,” he snarls. “It’s a good game.”

“No, no,” I say, my voice mocking. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Oi, fuckwads, could you keep the chatter down?” comes a deep voice on the other side of Snow. “Some of us actually care about football.”

Snow and I glance at each other and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. I stare forward determinedly, even as Snow turns to him.

I put a hand on his jacket, though, just in case I’m about to have to pull him off someone.

“Sorry, mate,” he says, sticking his hand out. “This is my first Newcastle match. Didn’t expect it to be so good.”

I refuse to lean forward, because I don’t want to be identified, but I imagine that the man is large, round and bald, and probably has his face painted.

“Well, that’s alright,” says the voice, suddenly gruffer and abashed. “You just getting into football, or jumping ship on your club?”

I can’t stop the laugh that breaks out of me, and Snow elbows me in the gut.

“Neither,” he says, pausing to stare forward as Newcastle kicks the ball out at the corner. “I’m here with a mate. I’m actually a MumU supporter, but I love any good match.”

“Snow,” I hiss, grabbing his jacket. Fuck, he’s going to get us kicked out of the seats.

“Fuck MumU,” barks our neighbour. “They’re useless. Not a good player on the team.”

I laugh again, and Snow kicks me.

“Ah, I dunno about that,” he says, easily enough. “I think—COME ON, GET IT IN, YOU CAN—Ahhhhh, fuck.” He shakes his head. “I think Baz Pitch is pretty decent.”

I kick Snow back.

“Psh,” says the Newcastle fan. “Pitch can kick, but he’s got no heart.”

“What?” Snow asks. I go very still.

“You can tell he’s just in it for the paycheck. That’s a player that doesn’t love football. Mark me, he’s not a fan.”

I pull Snow back by his jacket and lean forward.

“You think so?” I drawl, eyeing the supporter. I was right. He does have facepaint on.

His mouth drops open.

“You—” He looks between me and Snow. “That’s—you’re not—”

“Eh,” Snow says with a shrug, pushing me back. “There’s no chance Baz Pitch would be in the speccies at a Newcastle match.”

The supporter just stares at us, and I’m suddenly wondering if I’ve just done something extremely stupid. Oh, Christ, I’ve done something stupid. This is going to be a nightmare. This is going to be horrible.

Then he starts laughing.

“Ah, fuck me,” he says in his thick, deep voice. He pulls Simon aside suddenly and forcibly takes his spot so he’s standing next to me. “I’m Paul, by the way. Alright, tell me this: is it true that you’re going to Spain?”

“Spain?” I sputter. “Who said I was going to Spain?”

“Fucking everyone, mate,” Paul says, accompanied by a booming laugh. “They say that’s why you’ve ditched your contract, you’re going to Spain.”

“I haven’t ditched my contract,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets and glaring down at the pitch. “And I’d never play for Spain. Please. I’m never leaving England.”

Paul finds this extremely funny, and slaps me on the back.

“Atta boy,” he says, throwing an arm around my shoulders. “Fuck ‘em all.”

Snow and I exchange glances while I try to figure out if Paul is racist or just deeply committed to the Premier League, but we’re interrupted by Newcastle gaining possession and cutting up, sharp and relentless toward the goal.

Paul begins to lose his mind, but I can’t even blame him because the number 10 kicks it high and a winger comes out of nowhere with a beautiful header that lands the ball cleanly in goal, and my mind shuts off as I begin screaming.

Paul, Snow and I are a wordless torrent of shouting as the players take a lap around the goal, and then Paul begins slapping me on the back so hard I think he might break something.

“You’re all-fucking-right, Pitch,” Paul says, slapping me again. He punches Snow in the arm, and I see him wince. “Both of you, cut out this Mummers bullshit. Come to Newcastle, yeah? We’d be glad to have you.”

Snow and I make eye contact and grin.

“I’ll get right on that,” I say, completely unwilling to ever tell Paul no, for fear of being broken in half.

“You make a strong argument,” Snow adds, slapping Paul’s back in response, which elicits some kind of deep man-grumble-shouting that gets cut off as the ball goes back in play.

***

“I’m absolutely knackered,” Snow says, leaning his cheek against the back of the seat and turning to grin at me. The lights of the road are flickering off his face, lighting him up for moments in orange gold and setting his hair on fire. “Last five took five years off my life.”

“It was decent enough,” I sniff, turning to focus back on the road.

“Oi, you hungry?” he asks, shifting a bit. “I’d say just come back to the pub and I’ll feed us, but I dunno if I can last the whole drive.”

I am a bit hungry, to be honest. Paul invited us out after, but we shockingly declined. I could last the drive, though. Could last until I got home and could heat up food to eat alone in my own kitchen.

Or I could draw this out.

“I know a place,” I say, hitting my indicator and merging lanes.

I take us the long way, going around the far side of the Pennines on backroads, winding through the curves and villages that are scattered between the Dales and the Lake District, until we come to a stop outside of a tidy pub. 

Snow makes a noise in the back of his throat.

“What?” I ask, cutting the engine. “I thought you liked pubs?”

“If you wanted pub food, we could have eaten at the Goat, it’s all I’m saying.” He slams the car door closed and looks at me over the roof of my car. “There’s no need to waste money.”

“Snow,” I say, staring at him. “I have money to waste.”

And anyway, this is his day off.

He follows me into the Arms—not sure whose arm, though it’s probably a king—grumbling, dragging his trainers along the pavement like a child.

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” I mutter, putting my hand in the middle of his back and pushing him through the door and into the warm, bright, dark-wood inside, where I can already hear the 90’s radio playing.

I haven’t been here in ages. I used to stop here, sometimes, when I was driving to or from Ambleside to see Lamb. I always went to him—never vice versa.

He never came here with me. It wasn’t really his scene.

“I dunno why we drove for six years to get to—” Snow pauses, his eyes huge as he looks around the pub. “Oh.”

“Oh indeed.” I push him again, lightly. “Go get a table, I’ll order drinks.”

Snow’s eyes are still like blue china saucers when I return with two ales. (This isn’t the kind of place someone drinks wine.)

“Baz,” he says, his voice like a whisper as I scoot into the booth next to him, “this place is amazing.”

I take a sip and look around. I’m surprised he didn’t know about it, that he’s not in some pub owner-football fanatic cult where they all sit around and trade tips and obsessions. Or that he hasn’t just stumbled on it at some point. Really, this place is like Snow’s mecca.

Every spare piece of wall is covered in something—photos, shirts, scarves, banners. You could spend a week just reading this pub.

“I think I could die here,” Snow says. “Fuck, is that—” he points to a case in the corner. “Baz, I think that’s the ball used in the 1883 FA Cup final.”

“I would not know,” I say honestly, glancing at the case where a tattered old ball sits in front of a black and white picture of men scowling out from under their moustaches. Snow’s eyes are huge. 

“That’s—Baz, that match was _historic_. Blackburn took the Etonians, it was huge. Working-class team, from the North. It was—” he trails off, his jaw working, his eyes huge as he waves his hand in the air to try to find the words, “mega.”

Despite myself, despite my every intention, I am charmed.

“Do you want to order food, or do you want to get another round and walk around and read the walls?” I ask, picking up my drink. Snow stares at me, his mouth falling into a wide, excited grin.

“I think they’ve got the ‘66 national team kit hanging by the lav,” he says, grabbing his drink.

***

“And people think that keepers shouldn’t be captains, they think it’s a disconnect, but I feel like, y’know, I just feel like, they _get_ it. They’re the heart. They’re not selfish. Not like strikers.” Snow pauses in his slightly drunken ramble and looks up at me. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright, Snow,” I say, fighting back a smile. “I am selfish.”

Snow shoves his hands into his pocket and looks down at the pavement as we walk. It’s cold and windy and almost uncomfortably brisk, but both of us could use a slight freshening up before we get back in the car to drive home.

“What are you gonna do about Dev and Niall?” he asks suddenly, coming to a stop on the corner between two sagging old buildings that look like they’ve been painted in dirt.

My stomach thrums sharply.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, are you gonna talk to them? Or be all weird?” Snow leans back against one of the buildings. “It’s okay to be jealous, you know, just, don’t throw away your mates over it.”

“I’m not jealous,” I say, sniffing. “Stop being ridiculous. And stop leaning on that building, you’re going to smell like dirt.”

Snow rolls his eyes and pushes off, knocking his shoulder into mine as we keep walking.

“You _are_ jealous,” he insists. His hands swing free at his side, and the back of his fingers brush by my hand. His voice gets smaller. “I am.”

I pause a breath.

“You are?” I ask, hoping my voice doesn’t sound as small as I think it does. I clear my throat. This is ridiculous. I refuse to be pathetic like this. I refuse to even contemplate any ideas or notions or possibilities about why I’m being pathetic like this.

“Yeah,” Snow says, slowing to a stop just across the street from where we parked my car. “It’s nice to have someone. Someone that’s just...yours, you know? Someone to talk to and come home to, and he’ll—they’ll just...be there.”

He looks up at me with his blue eyes and pink wind-chapped cheeks, and I feel like I’ve been tackled. Like I’m back on the pitch, staring up at the sky, the wind taken out of me.

Snow is staring directly at my lips.

 _Someone to come home to and he’ll be there_ , he said. _He’ll be there_.

“I do know,” I say, my voice uncomfortably thin. I won’t look at his lips. I won’t. I don’t need this. This can’t happen. Not right now. Not yet.

“Come on, Snow,” I say, looking away. “Let’s head back.”


	12. HARD MAN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeans, lunch, MMA fighting, Simon's sad emotions and the terrifying power of teenage girls. The last shred of Baz's dignity. No one's seducing a premier league player.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello and welcome back! Fair warning: we did not write as much this weekend as we planned to, so updates may be a bit spottier this week (also did you know, when you work from home, people want you to actually work?)
> 
> Thanks so much for following along!
> 
> \- Ban x Bread

**BAZ**

Mordelia opens the door with a glare.

“Where’s Agatha?” she asks. Not even a hello. The state of today’s youth.

“I imagine somewhere in London, getting ready to play,” I say with a sniff. 

“God, I hate it when you come over without her,” she says, opening the door wider to let me through. Every week she gets meaner looking—more stretched out, her round face sharpening. She’s seventeen going on sociopathic.

“Hello to you, too, Mordy,” I say, stepping inside and unwinding my scarf so I can drop it on her head. She snatches the scarf off, kicks me in the shin, and then shoves me into the wall.

I stumble and try to right myself, staring at her in horror. She meets my eye, completely unbothered by this senseless act of violence. With a sigh, I take off my coat and hang it behind me.

“Business as usual, then?”

She glares at me.

I charge.

She goes tearing off down the hallway, showing off the best of her track skills that Daphne is always bragging to me about, but I’m faster. I catch her right before the kitchen, tackle her hard, and then throw her over my shoulder.

She bites my ear as I carry her into the kitchen and begins tugging, clearly trying her best to seperate my earlobe from my head. There’s something dripping on my neck that may be spit but I have a sneaking fear may be blood.

“Oh for goodness—” Daphne says, looking up from the stove. “You are both adults! Act like it!”

Mordelia wraps her arm around my head and begins pushing her thumb dangerously close to my eye.

“Make way,” I call to Acantha and Ophelia, who are both attempting to do schoolwork at the kitchen island. They have barely a moment to clear their books before I slam Mordelia into the counter and hold her down by her collarbone.

“Mercy?”

To my absolute horror, she grins.

Before I can even follow what’s happening, she’s grabbed my thumb, pulled it back, leveraged my weight against me and has pulled herself up and around my back, her arm pressed around my throat in a choke hold and both my hands pulled taught behind me.

“Mercy?” she asks.

“What—the—fuc—” I actually can’t breathe. I actually may be turning purple.

“Mercy?” she growls again, tugging my arms in a direction they should not go.

“Get—off—me—or—I—will—”

I’m saved by Magnus, who chooses this moment to walk into the kitchen and begin screaming like he’s been stabbed.

I throw Mordelia off of me and stagger away, clutching my throat.

“What the actual fu—”

“Basilton,” Daphne warns.

“—ck.”

“I’ve been doing MMA,” Mordelia says proudly, arranging her limbs into an orderly fashion while she leans behind her to pick green beans out of the pot on the stove. “I’m getting good.”

“I don’t think good is the word I’d use,” I mutter, massaging my neck and the last of my dignity.

“Basil, Mordelia, please stop and help me set the table,” Daphne chides. “Lunch is almost—” She pauses as the doorbell rings and looks around, like she’s counting her family members. “Who is that? Are we expecting anymore? Mordy, did you invite anyone else?”

“Nope,” she says, taking another green bean. “Acantha, get the door.”

“I’ll get it!” Magnus screams, running from the room. Something anxious begins to settle in my stomach as I remember what day it is.

“Mordelia,” I say quietly, “I’m going to need you to assassinate whoever walks through that door. No questions asked. Will you do this for me?”

She raises an eyebrow. “No?”

“Hello!” Dev booms from the doorway. I hold my breath. Niall trails behind him, holding a bottle of wine and looking sheepish.

“Dev! Niall!” Daphne exclaims, hurrying around the stove to hug them. “What a surprise! I didn’t know you were joining us.”

Dev and Niall glance at each other.

“Baz invited us,” Niall says, handing her the wine. “I hope that’s alright.”

“Of course it is,” Daphne says, giving me a look that says _I enjoy having guests, but I enjoy knowing about them first_ , and ushers them in. “The more the merrier. Basil, Mordelia, stop doing karate and set the table.”

Dev and Niall are watching me like they expect me to pull out MMA moves on them any moment.

I wish I could. I wish I could do bloody anything.

***

“Basil, I hear you’ve been making friends with Simon Snow?” Daphne asks ten minutes into the most painfully awkward Sunday lunch of my life. I’ve been silent—as silent as Dev and Niall, seated next to each other across the table and looking just fully contrite and miserable. 

I startle at the question, nearly dropping my fork. I’m not sure why I’m so jumpy. I’m never jumpy. It has to be Mordelia’s fault—I’m just scared of being mortally wounded at my own dinner table.

“Ah,” I say, after a pause. “Yes.”

“I think that’s nice,” Daphne says, like I’m five and have just made a new friend on the playground. “He’s a nice man.”

“His dog is a menace,” my father mutters from the far end of the table, the first words he’s said all meal.

“I heartily concur there,” I say, latching onto this safe topic. “It hates me. It keeps breaking into my house.”

“Have you tried locking your door?” Mordelia asks in a shitty tone. I glare.

“Mr. Simon brought his dog to class,” Magnus chimes in. “He didn’t like us. I told Miss Bunce I couldn’t go near him because I’m allergic.”

The whole table turns to stare.

“Magnus, you’re not allergic to dogs,” my father says, his white eyebrows furrowed. “Why would you say that?”

“Because I didn’t like the dog,” Magnus says with a shrug, returning to his roast. I watch Malcolm and Daphne meet eyes across the table, like they’re asking each other what they did in this life to deserve such weird children.

“You shouldn’t lie about allergies,” Daphne begins to scold, but my father and I are both already shaking our heads.

“I think it’s fair to lie about that dog,” I say. My father nods. Even _Dev_ nods.

“He’s an awful dog,” Dev vouches.

“Also Mr. Simon and Miss Bunce were talking about that thing. With Basil? Remember, the thing Mum said we’re not allowed to talk about—”

“I read the most fascinating article this morning,” Malcolm cuts in, drowning out my little brother. “ _I had pie and Bovril with Baz Pitch at a Newcastle match_.” Malcolm looks straight at me. “It’s an interview with a Newcastle fan who swears he sat next to you in the stands last week and allegedly had a great time.”

“Oh, I read that too,” Niall says, speaking for the first time. “I liked the bit where he said Baz has his boot full of hats and scarves so he can sneak into any match.”

“I cannot believe you are all reading that rubbish,” I say, shaking my head. “You know nothing printed in those rags is true. It’s just slander.”

“It was an essay in the BBC sports column,” Niall says, his voice a bit quiet. “And it was very complimentary. He said he’d never seen your appeal, but after talking it was clear that you’re really a ‘football fan’s footballer.’”

“Well that makes no sense,” I say with a sniff, staring down at my plate. “What does that even mean?”

“I assumed Fiona had placed the article,” Malcolm says, setting down his wine. “Or arranged the whole situation.” His face starts to look alarmed. “Did they just make it up entirely? They don’t typically run—”

“Oh for Christ’s—” I snap, putting down my fork. “Yes, fine, I went to a Newcastle match. I go to games occasionally, and I was bored, so Snow and I went, and he’s a menace, like his dog, and started making friends with men named Paul who have painted faces and reek of Bovril and next thing you know, I’m dragged very unwillingly into conversation.”

The whole table stares at me, like I’ve just had an embarrassing outburst instead of simply explaining the situation.

“You went to a match with Snow?” Dev asks, his face pulled into a weird expression. “I thought we were your secret sneaky match mates?”

“Yes, well,” I stare down at my lap. “I assumed you were busy.”

“Not for secret sneaky matches.”

“Well, now I know.” I take a long, long sip of wine and then set down my empty glass. “Mother, this was an amazing meal. May I take your plate?”

Before she can say much I take her plate and mine and stand from the table and retreat quickly back to the kitchen.

Because I’m cursed, Dev and Niall are on my heels.

“Baz—” Dev starts, at the same time as Niall goes, “Mate—”

“Stop,” I say, holding up a hand. “Stop.”

“Baz, we were going to—”

“It’s fine.” I shake my head. “It’s really fine. I don’t care. I’m happy for you.” I twist my hands. “I just don’t know why you didn’t tell me.” My voice turns sharp. “You don’t have any reason to hide.”

“We weren’t hiding,” Niall says. “It’s not really a secret.”

“So why didn’t I know?”

“Because you wouldn’t have wanted to know,” Dev says, his jaw jutted out. “You’ve got so much going on, you’re wrapped in your own head and misery and you don’t—”

“Dev,” Niall says, his voice warning.

“No, let him finish,” I say, crossing my arms and swallowing down the bile rising up in me.

“You’re not big on other people’s happiness, lately,” Dev says, crossing his arms as well. “You’re fucking miserable, and it’s made you mean. And how were we to know you’d be happy for us, and not make it weird and punish us instead? Which is exactly what you’re doing.”

“I’m not _punishing_ you,” I stutter. “That’s—”

“You’re angry and bitter,” Dev spits out, letting it land between us. “You’re backed into a shitty situation and until you man up and make a fucking choice, you’re just going to get worse.”

“Dev, come on,” Niall says, his voice urgent. “That’s not totally fair. You know what he’s dealing with.”

“No, it’s fair,” I say. My voice is sharp and feels like it’s being ripped from me. “He’s not wrong.”

I think back to my mindless run out of the village, feeling so angry that I could set fire to the whole world and pray the flames took me too. He’s really not wrong.

“Mate, we are here for you for whatever,” Dev says, looking surprised that I agreed with him. Frankly, I’m surprised too. “But don’t shut us out. You don’t have to pretend to be friends with Snow to make us jealous or something.”

“I’m not pretending,” I snap. “Christ, I’m not the only one who thinks the world revolves around me, hm?”

Dev frowns. “Must be a family trait.”

“Just… let us in, yeah?” Niall says quietly from my other side. “Look at that article. Good things happen when you let people in.”

Dev and I both stare at him.

“What are you, a fucking fortune cookie?” I ask, and Dev laughs, probably despite himself, but Niall just shrugs and lets it roll off.

I turn and begin packing up leftovers. 

“I am happy for you two. Sincerely,” I say into the beans. “You deserve happiness.”

“Yeah, yeah, you too,” Dev says, the fire completely gone from him. He comes to my side and begins packing up the roast. “Did you really drink Bovril?”

  
  


**SIMON**

I’ve a whole pub full of teen girls, and not a single one of them gives a shit about Baz Pitch. It’s beautiful.

He pauses in the doorway of the Goat and stares around like a startled cat. A group of girls walk in behind him, jostling his shoulder, and he nearly jumps. They don’t even glance at him.

He looks—well—he’s clearly come from something fancy. He’s wearing nice jeans and a posh coat, and his hair is all styled, instead of pulled into a bun. I usually see him in trackies or kit or something, and it’s just odd to see him in _jeans_.

Seeing him makes me feel a bit like I’ve just walked into a wall. Which is mad—I’ve seen him twice since the game, coming in and out of his house, and things are normal. There’s no reason to be acting like this. Acting fucking stupid.

(There’s that voice in the back of my head that keeps saying that I’ve already been acting fucking stupid, and I’m trying real hard not to listen to it.)

I throw my towel over my shoulder, stick my fingers in my mouth and whistle for his attention. He makes eye contact with me and starts pushing his way through the crowd. The girls barely even part for him, which is kind of funny to watch, actually. He probably usually parts crowds like Moses.

“This is a mad house,” he says, leaning over the bar to talk to me. “This is—where did all these people come from?”

“A bit of Agatha, a bit of Shep’s podcast, a bit of word of mouth,” I shout back. “Turns out the old geezers who watched the last women’s match loved it, spread the word, and—” I step back to throw my arms out at the packed pub, “—I guess folk are interested.”

“Jesus,” Baz says, reaching forward to pluck the towel off my shoulder and wipe down the empty stool in front of him. Then he carefully puts it back on my shoulder. His hand pauses for a second to pull something off my shirt and shake it away, before he smooths the towel out and sits down.

My pulse fucking jumps.

“You want a drink?” I ask, watching as he sits down and tilts his neck up to watch the big projector screen I’ve got the game going on. “Good?

“No, I’ve just come from lunch and I’m not staying.” He turns away from the match to look at me out of the corner of his eye. “Listen, Snow, I’ve been thinking. About this podcast thing.”

“What?” The crowd explodes in a cheer as one of the women on screen do something impressive that I didn’t catch, because Baz was looking at me.

“Podcast!” he shouts. “The American? And his podcast?”

“Oh, fuck, yeah.” I lean over to pull an ale for the bloke waiting next to Baz and pass it over. “So you’re gonna do it?”

“I’m considering it,” he says, tapping the counter and looking away. “But only if you do it with me.”

I pull the tap and spill beer all over my foot.

“Fuck—what—what?” I drop the towel from my shoulder to the ground to mop up the beer. Fuck. 

“I want to record it here,” he says, ticking off one finger, “and I want you to suffer with me.” He ticks off another finger. Clearly he’s been thinking about this.

“Why me?” I ask, fear spiking. I’m not cut out for a podcast. I dunno how to speak. I’ll trip all over myself and make a mess of it. And anyway, why would I be on? It’s not like I’ve got anything to talk about, not next to Baz.

“Because maybe we can spin it and make it less about why I’m not playing right now and more about, I don’t know, fan culture or something. That article about you last summer was popular.” Baz waves his hand dismissively. “And Paul from Newcastle wrote some op-ed about my love of football and Bovril that apparently was a hit.”

“Baz, I can’t,” I say, shaking my head. “I wouldn’t even know what to say.”

“Oh, come on, Snow. Don’t you listen to podcasts? You just ramble. You’re good at that.”

“But—”

“Listen, Snow,” he says, slamming his hand down on the table and barely misses Penny’s hand as she slides a pin card over the counter for me to ring up. She startles and glares.

“Sorry, Bunce,” he says like an afterthought. “Snow. You know more about football than anyone. You probably know more about it than me.”

“I don’t—”

“You do,” he and Penny say at the same time.

“I dunno…” I say, rubbing my hand over the back of my neck before remembering that it’s got beer on it. “Shep wanted you on the podcast, not me.”

“Are you doing the podcast?” Penny asks, leaning to look at Baz. “Shepard will be happy. Obnoxiously so.”

“I’m only doing it if Snow agrees,” Baz responds, raising an eyebrow at me. “So?”

He and Penny are staring at me, waiting for an answer, and I feel like my stomach is churning and trying to revolt on me.

“I…” Baz’s other eyebrow goes up. “Fine! Fine, I’ll do the bloody podcast.”

“Excellent,” Baz says, tapping the counter. “I’ll be seeing you, then. Bunce.”

He gives her a curt nod before pushing his way back through the crowd, very nearly avoiding getting taken down by a 13 year-old-girl’s elbow. He winces when she comes near him, which is a bit weird. Didn’t know Baz was scared of teen girls.

“ _Well_ ,” Penny says, watching him go. “You go to one game together and now you’re best friends.” She shakes her head. “I guess you don’t need me anymore.”

“Come off it, Pen,” I say, turning away to futz with glasses and take an order. “He’s not my best friend.”

“Simon.”

“What?”

“Come on.” She steals a stool out from under someone who stands up to go to the lav and props her arms up on the bar. “You spend literally all your time together. You talk about him all the time. You’re either best friends or in love or something.”

“Come off it,” I mutter, turning away to hide my ears.

“I’m just saying, I’ve put in years worth of weekends watching Baz’s games with you, and if I’d known it was all just so you could seduce a Premier League player—”

“No one is seducing a Premier League player!” I snap, a bit too loud, slamming a glass down on the bar so forcefully that it sloshes over the sides. A few people turn to stare, and my ears light up even more. Bloody fucking ears.

“It’s not like that, Pen, really.” I lean in closer, shoulders hunched, and lower my voice. “He’s just going through a tough time and I’m there for him. That’s all.”

Penny gives me her suspicious squint face.

“If that’s true...well... just be careful, yeah?” Her eyes go soft. “Please?”

“Why do I need to be careful?”

Penny looks around, clearly uncomfortable. I wish she’d just spit it out. I hate when she hedges. She never hedges on anything, so if Pen is wondering whether to say something, you know that when it comes out it’s gonna be a real stunner.

“I just mean, if he’s dealing with stuff, maybe he’s using you. Or hanging around you because you’re here and available and it feels good because you worship him.”

“I don’t _worship_ him,” I bark. “What the fuck.”

Penny bites her lip and looks actually upset, and my anger flips over into something really shit, something flat and embarrassing.

“Just don’t get hurt, please,” she whispers. “Don’t let him hurt you.”

“He’s not gonna hurt me,” I say, waving my hand and trying to act like this is nonsense, like Penny’s overreacting, as I turn away from the bar. And she _is_ overreacting, she’s being nutters, because there’s no way that Baz is playing with my—my _feelings_ or anything. There’s no way that’s even on the table.

He’s a Premier League player, for Christ’s sake, and I run a dingy pub. If he’s trying to get away from football, I’m the last person he’d turn to.

“I’ve got to nip to the back,” I say. “Hold the bar?”

I hurry back through the kitchen and Nico sneers at me, ready to make a shitty comment, but I push by him. I don’t have it in me to do our whole routine right now.

“Hey, kid, you okay?” he asks, reaching out to flick me, but I side step him and go out the back door, into the little alley where we get deliveries and put the rubbish.

It reeks back here, but the cold air feels good. I feel like my whole body is on fire, like I’m lighting up within.

I try not to think about it. Us. After the match, standing there, thinking _I could kiss him_. Thinking I could just reach up and reach out. But that didn’t seem right. I’m—

Well. Penny’s wrong. I don’t worship him. But I don’t think I’d mind if—

I knock my head back into the wall.

Baz isn’t using me. He’s not bloody in love with me, but he’s not using me, I know that. I have to know that, I have to trust that. Trust _him_.

But the thing is….

The thing is, I think I’d actually let Baz Pitch thrash my heart to pieces if he wanted to.


	13. FRIENDLY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Limited edition World Cup kit, business take-aways, an interesting proposition and a picture-perfect mug. Are you more of a hunter or a gatherer? Truly Shakespearean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello! Thanks for tuning in, yada yada, you know the drill, listen to our playlist, much love and appreciation, xxxxx
> 
> \- Ban & Bread

**SIMON**

“Okay, now I’m going to count us in, and then I’ll hit record. It’s not live, so it’s fine if we mess up, but just keep going. I’ll edit it when we’re done.” Shepard adjusts the big, fancy-looking mics in front of Baz and I. “Okay?”

“Er,” I say.

“Yes, I think we have it,” Baz says, taking a sip of his wine and adjusting in his seat. Across the pub, the door creaks open as Nico walks out to smoke.

“You sure it’s okay to do it here?” I ask, probably for the sixth time. “Just, all the noise—”

“We’re doing it here,” Baz says curtly, adjusting his legs again. I think he’s nervous—he’s been acting like a prick all day, and he’s drinking wine at lunch.

“Yeah, don’t worry, Simon. The ambient noise just adds to the mood, and the mics will cut out most of it. Now, three...two...one.” Shep clicks a button on his laptop and then spreads his hands out on the table and leans in.

“Welcome back everyone, I’m Shepard Clark, and today I have two incredible guests. You may know our first guest as the fastest man in England—friends, say hello to Baz Pitch of Mummers United FC.”

Baz and I glance at each other.

“Hello,” Baz says, woodenly. I hold back a snort.

“And our second guest was kind enough to host us today—for long-time followers of my column, you’ll recognise a familiar name, we have Simon Snow, founder of the MumU Supporters section. Simon, give us a shout.”

“‘Lo,” I mumble, leaning in.

“Now, Baz, Simon, I leaked on Twitter that I was going to be doing a segment with you two, and I asked listeners to send in their questions. Any question at all. Simon, do you want to read some of those off?”

Shep passes me an iPad where he’s typed up a bunch of questions. Just pages of questions, all dumped in there. I never really figured him for a bloke who did preparation.

“Er, Baz, this one’s for you,” I say, squinting at the list. “Do you believe in vampires?” I look up at Shep. “What’s this got to do with football? Can we skip this?”

“Please,” Baz drawls. Shep just grins and shrugs.

“Right, okay, next one is for Baz again—are you more of a hunter or a gatherer?”

“Pass.”

“Okay, er,” I scroll down. “What is Bovril?”

“What kind of people follow you on Twitter?” Baz snarls, grabbing the iPad from my hands and scrolling through it.

“Admittedly, I have a lot of followers from back when I was into kind of new-agey things. Also I picked up some when I was ghost hunting, and for reasons I don’t really get, I’ve got a bunch of knitters who follow me too.” He pauses. “That’s probably because of my mom, actually, those are probably her friends.”

“We’re not answering these,” Baz says, handing the iPad back to Shep. He turns to me. “Snow. No holds barred. Ask me any question you want.” He pauses. “About football.”

“Er—” I pause, racking my brain. Any question? I have a million fucking questions for Baz, and for once, none of them have anything to do with football.

_So, Baz, what would you have done if I’d kissed you last weekend?_

_Great question, Snow. I would have used my million-pound foot to kick you in the sack._

“Just ignore Shepard,” Baz says, turning again so he’s nearly blocking Shep from sight. “Just fire off questions at me like you do when it’s just us. God knows you won’t shut up then.”

“Right,” I say, nodding. “Okay, alright.” I drum my fingers on the table, then lean in. “What was the first match you ever went to?”

“MumU versus Blackburn. It was the Mill Darby. My father and my aunt took me, and I had to be...seven, I think.”

“Seven?” I repeat, shaking my head. “You got to go to the Mill Darby when you were seven?”

“It was a birthday present,” Baz says, grinning. He’s got a great smile—wide and sharp, like he’s just had an awful idea and is about to let you in on the secret. “I’d recently gotten into football, and I’d gone a bit mad with it. I think my father was scared that if he didn’t take me I would have set the house on fire.”

“You probably would have,” I mutter. Baz grins.

“I probably would.”

“Right, okay, so you’re seven, massive fan already. How did it all start?”

Baz sucks in his breath and his smile drops. My stomach flips. What did I say wrong? I open my mouth to pull it back when Baz starts speaking.

“My aunt Fiona.”

I let out a breath of relief.

“Your manager, yeah?”

“Yes,” Baz says. His voice gets quiet. “I was five. My mum had just died and my dad was...not handling things well. Fiona came over for Christmas, and she had got me the kit from that year’s World Cup. From there it just… spiralled, I suppose. I became a huge fan, and my aunt started taking me to games and dragging my dad along to get him out of the house, and then soon the three of us were hooked.”

Shep’s eyes get huge, and I kind of want to join him in looking dumbfounded—Baz has never talked about his mum before. Not to me, at least. I knew she died—nothing is a secret around here, and even though it happened when we were young, everyone kind of grew up knowing. I’ve never really thought about it before. What it must have felt like for him.

But it seems like the kind of thing I shouldn’t dwell on, shouldn’t make a big fuss over, so I keep going.

“Oh, Christ, I remember that kit,” I say instead, covering my silence with a sip of beer. “You used to wear it to school like every day.”

“Well if you had a limited run World Cup kit, you would too,” Baz says, sniffing.

“Okay, I just want to cut in here real fast,” Shepard says, leaning forward. Baz startles, like he forgot Shep was here. “Because I don’t think a lot of listeners know this, but you two went to school together as kids.”

“Barely,” Baz says at the same time I say, “For a few years, yeah.”

“So did you stay friends when Baz went to the Premier? Walk me through this friendship. How did you guys re-meet?”

Baz and I exchange glances.

“I own a pub,” I say, slowly.

“And I wanted lunch,” Baz adds dismissively. “Truly Shakespearean.”

“Oi, you know what I want to know,” I say, jumping on this before Shep starts trying to ask questions about our friendship or something, and makes my ears light up. “When you go to the World Cup—”

“Which I have. Twice.”

“Shut up. When you go to the World Cup, do they give you all the novelty kit? Like the track suits and the shirts and stuff? Is it personalised?”

“Oh, yeah, they give you everything,” Baz says, leaning back in his chair and adopting a lazy sprawl. “I have mountains of World Cup things at my house that I never touch.”

“You don’t even wear it?” I ask, horrified.

“No, I have other clothes.” Baz does a dismissive flick of his wrist. “And they give you a lot.”

“Well shit, if you won’t wear it, I will. Pass it over.”

“Don’t you think you have enough clothing with my name on it?”

“This is _World Cup_ kit,” I insist, shaking my head. “Who cares about you? It’s got the England crest on it.”

“Oh my God, I’ve found something you idolise more than me,” Baz says. Shep’s eyes are bouncing between us, his mouth starting to open a bit. My fucking ears get hot.

“Oh, get stuffed,” I mutter, taking another sip of beer. “Right. Okay. Next question. Do you have to take your own kit home and wash it?”

**BAZ**

“No, no, shut up,” Snow snarls, sticking his finger in my face. “That’s not how it happened.” His face is pulled into a ridiculous smile, his eyes scrunched up. He turns to the American. “That’s not how it happened.”

“I did not push him,” I insist, shaking my head. “He dove after my foot and fell in the puddle all on his own. I didn’t even notice he’d fallen.”

“Oh, you liar,” Snow growls. “You kicked me in the shin!”

“I have no recollection of this,” I insist, taking another sip of wine. “Really, Snow, it was years ago. It’s time to move on.”

“You dirty fucking—”

“Hi, idea,” Shepard says, cutting in. “Let’s settle this like gentlemen, yeah?” He leans into his mic and grins at us. I’d almost forgotten we were still recording—there’s a small moment of fear where I wonder what I’ve been saying into the microphone. “I suggest a fight to the death.”

“I’m in,” Snow and I say at the same time.

“Well, I think that’s all the time we have for this week. Thank you to everyone for listening in, and if Baz Pitch goes missing sometime soon, it’s because he fell in battle to Simon Snow. Thanks again everyone, and before we go, let’s have a word from our sponsors.”

Shepard clicks a button on his laptop and then turns to us, a wide, almost threatening smile on his face.

“Holy _shit_ my dudes,” he says, standing up, spinning in place and clapping. “That was amazing!”

Snow and I glance at each other, both a bit alarmed by seeing a grown man spin and clap, I have to assume.

“Seriously,” he says, dropping back into his seat. “Excellemundo. We have to do this again.”

“Er—”

“Like, weekly,” Shepard continues. “Baz, would you be down? We’ll just meet up for an hour and get drinks and Simon and I can ask you questions, and it’ll just be like a chat, just like this.”

“I’m in if Baz is,” Snow says, shrugging and pulling his hand up to rub at his neck. He does that when he’s nervous, I think. I’m not sure why Snow would be nervous. He was very good at this.

“I don’t know if I can commit to a weekly meetup,” I say, hedging. “My month off is almost over, and my regular schedule is very unpredictable.”

Snow’s smile falters slightly.

“Yeah, well that’s alright, we could work around it,” he says. “Or do it whenever. Or not at all, there’s no pressure. I know coming here once a week is a lot.” Snow picks at the table.

I shift in my seat. Coming here once a week isn’t a lot. Not really. It would be difficult with my match schedule, but making time to speak to Snow once a week? That wouldn’t be a hardship. Fiona will have a cow when she finds out about this, and will likely tell me I'm not allowed to do another, but I've never listened to her before, and I'm not going to start now.

I’d already been thinking it would be odd to go back to my normal life and not have Snow and his dog to war with. The podcast would fix that. It would give me a reason to come back. A reason to keep this odd little thing going. A way to keep a connection once I start playing again—because if I go back to playing, I can’t just casually drop by whenever to bother Snow and watch a match.

I still don’t know if I’m going back, though. I still haven’t made a decision, and so every choice in front of me right now seems impossible and insurmountable. I’m rapidly running out of time to decide which direction I want to go: return to playing and stay quiet, return to playing and take a massive risk, or turn my back on all of it. See if I could settle into a life that doesn’t have football.

I glance at Snow out of the corner of my eye.

I’m not sure what choice I’m going to make yet, but I don’t think I want to make one that doesn’t include Snow.

“Alright,” I say, making my words sound short and clipped. “I’ll see if I can squeeze it.”

Snow and the American break into wide, glowing grins.

“Oh, crap,” the American says suddenly, looking down at his mobile. “Crap, I have to meet Penny.”

“Is that like, a thing that is happening?” Snow asks, standing up to collect our glasses from the table.

“My friend,” Shepard says, pausing and looking serious, “I am trying.”

“Well Godspeed,” Snow grunts, walking behind the bar. “Cut it out with the tornado stuff though, I’m not sure she’s into that whole thing.”

“We’re gonna agree to disagree here,” Shepard says, putting his bookbag on. “See ya, Simon. Baz.” He holds out his fist. I think he wants me to bump it. I will not.

“Okay then. See ya!”

Snow is clattering around behind the bar, his back to me. He’s wearing one of my shirts again—an old one, back from before we went up the tables, long before I went to the World Cup. He had to have gotten that shirt shortly after I got called up to MumU from academy.

“I told you that you’d be fine,” I say, crossing the pub and leaning against the bar so I can watch him clean. “You can say thank you now.”

“Fuck off,” he says, throwing a grin over his shoulder.

“You know, I’m a celebrity,” I quip, raising an eyebrow. “I’m a star player. You can’t talk to me like that.”

“My pub,” Snow barks back. “I’ll talk to you however I want.” He turns and places another glass of wine in front of me and then drops a menu. “Order something.”

“Why?”

“Because you can’t drink your lunch.” He puts on his fighting face. It’s a shame he can’t play to save his life—a mug like that would look perfect on posters.

“I’ll have a salad.”

“Great, I’ll put in that order for your burger.”

I sputter.

“You’ll do no such thing—”

But Snow has disappeared into the back already, leaving me alone in the pub with the geriatric men who seem to live here. One of the oldest ones catches me looking and gives me a calm nod and then goes back to his conversation.

It’s always like this in Snow’s pub, I’m realising. People either ignore me altogether or give me generic little head nods. Do the citizens of this village just not give a shit who I am, or has Snow threatened them all into good behaviour?

Snow comes back from the kitchen with (thank God) a salad and a bowl of chips and drops them both in front of me.

“Help yourself,” he says, nodding at the chips while he reaches for the Malt vinegar. He pauses and shakes the bottle at me, like asking for permission. I nod. Only savages eat chips without vinegar.

He dumps an alarming amount on top and sets upon them like a dying man at his last supper.

“Speaking of your complete lack of respect for me and my person,” I begin, watching him stick a finger in his mouth and lick the vinegar off, “should we plan what we’ll talk about in the next podcast episode, so it doesn’t devolve into you yelling at me again?”

“What? Oh. Sure. If you want.” He picks up a few chips and drops them on top of my salad.

“Lovely. Do you want to come over this weekend for dinner?”

The words come out before I’ve had time to process them, which is not something that has ever happened to me before. But that may have sounded rather like—

Snow looks up from his chips and stares at me for a moment, his eyes wide. Of course Snow took it the wrong way. Of course he’d blunder into the wrong assumption.

“I, er, can’t do dinner,” he says. His ears have turned very pink, which means that he has definitely taken it the wrong way, and I now have to sit here and suffer the sheer indignity of Snow trying to politely turn down my offer of a date, which wasn’t even a date. It was an offer for a business take-away. “Pub schedule, you know.”

“Of course,” I say, sitting up straighter. “That’s largely for the best. I’m very busy this weekend. We can sort it later—whenever I can squeeze it in.”

“Or—” Snow starts, then pauses. An ugly blotched flush starts working its way up his neck and onto his cheeks.

“Or?” I ask, uncomfortably aware that my pulse has jumped.

He shoves six chips in his mouth and stares down into his pint.

“Or you could come over before work?” he says very fast, washing down his chips and not looking at me. “I always do a big breakfast before my shifts, and I know you’re up. You could—come join me. To plan.”

I’m not sure why Snow asking me to join him for breakfast feels far more charged than my casual invitation to dinner. Maybe it’s the way he’s watching me, his eyebrows pulled in so tight he looks like he’s about to hurt himself.

“Breakfast?” I ask, trying to sound dismissive.

“Yeah, breakfast,” he repeats. He smiles a bit. “Most important meal of the day.” His smile drops. “Oh, God, you’re one of those types who doesn’t eat breakfast, aren’t you? Or you have a—a—whole wheat health bar and a banana or something.”

“For your information, I eat an egg white omelette.”

Snow leans his head back and groans. His throat and Adam's apple get in on the action. It’s extremely distracting.

“Of course you do.” He shakes his head and takes another chip. “Right, it’s decided then. You’re coming to breakfast for Saturday.” He points a chip at me threateningly. “And you’re gonna like it.”

For a horrifying, mortifying second, I consider taking a bite out of the chip.

“I will do no such thing,” I say instead, picking up my fork and settling into my salad. “Fine, Snow, I’ll come to breakfast. But I will hate every moment of it.”

“Prick.”

“Pissant.”

“Quitter.”

“Stalker.”

Snow throws the chip at me and I bat it out of the air effortlessly. It goes careening down the bar and lands neatly in the ale of the old man who always nods at me.

“Oi!” he shouts, the most energy I’ve ever seen out of him.

“Oh, fuck,” Snow mutters, racing over. “Sorry! Sorry, lemme get you another one….” He busies himself grabbing another glass and pulling an ale as I try very hard not to laugh at him. He looks up at me and glares.

“Smug bastard,” he mouths.

I don’t say anything. I just point to the giant poster of me hanging next to my stool, and Snow’s ears glow neon red.


	14. ROUNDING THE KEEPER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shipping, breakfast and an unlikely truce. A thousand and ten Instagram notifications and a sofa full of chloroform. One more week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today on a conference call the cat sat down next to me and sang a song for all my coworkers. It went "there are four more chapters left in this fic! Oh my god, they're so stupid!"
> 
> Thanks for tuning in and enjoy the chapter! Love as always,
> 
> xx - banana

**SIMON**

Not sure what wakes me up first: the sun in my eyes or Davey landing a hair’s breath away from my sack.

His fur is cold and a bit damp, so he’s clearly gone out and done his business for the morning. Probably took a stroll around the village, bugged some squirrels and inspected some churchgoers before deciding to get back in bed.

“Morning,” I mumble, scritching his ear. He drops his head on my stomach and goes to sleep, so I lay there a tick and let him.

It’s nice, mornings like this. Davey can be a handful sometimes—he can be a bit fickle, too—but this is why you have a dog, because it’s nice to wake up on a Saturday morning and feel someone next to you.

With a yawn I grab my mobile and flick through my emails—bunch of bullshit—before clicking over to Instagram.

I nearly drop my phone on my fucking face when I see I’ve several thousand notifications.

“That’s not fucking possible,” I mutter, clicking through them, scrolling down and down until I see where they’ve come from. It’s just like a sea of Fiat 500s.

Baz. Of course it’s Baz.

It’s a picture of us at the pub, sitting in front of the microphones. Shep must have taken it sometime during the recording, but I don’t remember seeing him do it. Baz has his chin propped on his hand, his hair in his eyes a bit as he glares me with that look he gets sometimes—half annoyed, half smiling because he thinks I’m stupid. I’m grinning, my mouth open and clearly mid-shout, my beer waving in the air. I look like an absolute fucking idiot. I look like a buffoon, and Baz looks like he’s smiling at a rowdy kid.

 _Courtesy of @BBCShep_ , the caption reads. _Apparently people enjoy listening to @SimonSnow drunkenly shout at me. Link in bio._

“Fuuuuuuuck,” I groan, rolling over so I can smother myself in my fucking pillow. Christ, how did he even know my handle? Fuck, has he known I follow him on Instagram this whole time?

Picking up my mobile, I click on his instagram story. It’s Agatha, sitting at a table, her phone playing in front of her, her hands over her face.

“ _What do you mean The Cloisters aren’t your top pick?_ ” my voice is saying. “ _That’s your home field!_ ”

“ _Snow, it’s Wembley. No one would pick anything other than Wembley_.”

“ _This is the most unpatriotic bullshite I’ve ever heard. I need you to change your answer. Like, I need this, Baz._ ”

Agatha’s shoulders shake like she’s crying, but suddenly she turns to the camera—it has to be Baz behind it, it’s so high up—and drops her hands to show that she’s laughing uncontrollably.

“ _Oh my God_ ,” she wheezes. “ _You’re both so stupid_.”

The video cuts off. Before I can watch it again, a notification pops up. Some random username I’ve never seen before, commenting on Baz’s picture.

_Omggggg i ship it_

I watch in absolute fucking horror as twenty people ‘like’ the comment.

I sink back into my pillows and groan.

“This is gonna be really fucking embarassing, isn’t it, Dave?”

He picks his head up off my stomach and glares at me, a real shitty look, like he’s trying to tell me that he warned me from the beginning. Maybe he did. Maybe all this time his little vendetta against Baz has just been to protect me from this: the whole bloody internet being able to tell from one photo that I’m in love with Baz Pitch.

***

Baz rings the bell just as I’m pulling out things for breakfast. Davey hits the door with all four feet, already barking up a storm, cutting over the radio I’ve got going.

“Come in!” I shout from the kitchen. My hands are a bit sweaty and my stomach starts to hurt. I’ve never had Baz over here to just….hang out before. It’s going to be weird. Sitting down to eat with him when I don’t have the pub to distract me. Fuck, it’s going to be awkward. What are we even going to _talk_ about?

The door opens, the barking gets louder, and then something goes flying by the kitchen and into my living room, Davey in hot pursuit.

Baz appears in the doorway looking real fucking smug.

I open my mouth to ask what the hell he just threw into my house when the sound of frantic squeaking starts up.

“Rule number one, Snow,” Baz says, folding his arms. “Learn how to distract the enemy.”

The squeaking gets louder, crescendoing into a real horrible-sounding squeaky-toy scream and then suddenly stops. Baz’s smile slips.

“What—”

“He’ll have pulled the squeaker out by now and destroyed it,” I say, turning back to the stove. “It’s why he doesn’t have loads of stuffed animals. If you go in there, I’ll bet you it’s just an absolute massacre.”

“Your dog belongs in an institution,” Baz says, stepping further into the kitchen. He pauses to watch me put bacon in a pan. “I’m not eating all that.”

“I know,” I say, cracking some eggs. “But I will.”

“Disgusting,” he sniffs, crossing to my cabinets and opening them up. “Have you made coffee?”

“Nah, but the tin’s over there,” I say, pointing with my elbow. I yawn and shake my head. “Make it strong.”

Baz putzes around with my coffee maker and I keep at the stove, measuring out ingredients for breakfast and trying real hard not to be aware of how close he passes behind me, or the way his arm stretches by my face when he reaches up for the mugs.

“So it would appear our little side-show was a success,” he says finally, setting down a cup of coffee next to the cutting board where I’m chopping up peppers and onions. He leans his back against the counter next to me, his hands clasped around his mug.

“Yeah, I saw your Instagram post,” I say, focussing on not chopping off my bloody thumb. God I hope he hasn’t seen the most recent comments. I’ve seen us called ‘cute’ too many times to count. If Baz has seen them, he’ll be a huge prick about it.

“We’re a hit on Twitter as well,” Baz says, that smug, self-satisfied look on his face that makes me want to either hit him or kiss him.

Admittedly, most things Baz does make me want to either hit him or kiss him.

He leans forward to dig his mobile out of his pocket and his shoulder brushes mine, and I nearly graze my knuckle.

He taps something in and then turns the screen to face me. “People have been quoting me all morning. And apparently you are a ‘mood.’”

“What does that mean?” I drop the veggies into the pan with the eggs.

“No idea. Oh, listen to this article—” he raises his voice over the low music—” _Pitch and Snow, along with their confused American host, are refocusing the narrative of the game. It’s not about the money or the skill—it’s about the community, the fans, and the game that brings us all together._ ” Baz pauses and makes a face. “Sentimental drivel.”

“Oh come off it,” I say, shaking my head and elbowing him out of the way so I can reach for some plates. “You’re loving this.”

“I can’t help it if I was made to be adored,” he says with a shrug, taking the plates out my hand and opening my silverware drawer. “It’s not my fault the people want to hear my thoughts.”

He disappears into the glass extension for a moment with the plates and silverware, then comes back in and starts digging around in my bread bin.

“One piece or two?” he asks, holding up the bread.

“Three.”

“Disgusting,” he says, making a face as he pulls out five pieces of bread and plugs in my toaster. “Regardless, we seem to have stumbled on something here.”

“I was thinking next week I could ask you questions about academy and stuff. You know, what it’s like, how you got called up, all that.” I flip the omelette. “And every episode we should do a top ten list.”

“I can’t believe you’ve actually put thought into this.” Baz reaches around me to grab the butter, and my stomach nearly jumps to my throat when I realise he’s standing behind me, his arm nearly around my waist.

He pulls back immediately, not even fucking noticing, because it was just a normal fucking motion for him, and I’m the only one here who is getting the nervous fucking sweats.

“I figure if we don’t think through it, Shep will have us listing top ten monsters or something,” I say with a shrug. I turn to take the plate with the potatoes in, but Baz is already there, plate of toast in one hand. He takes the potatoes and turns around, marching out of the kitchen. I grab my coffee and the eggs and follow him in a daze.

I kind of figured we’d just eat at my tiny kitchen table, like I usually do, but apparently Baz has set the table in my glass extension. Ebb and I used to eat out here—we’d have breakfast or tea as the sun was coming up, or lunch on Christmas—but I don’t use this room much since she’s died. It’s only got the radio and no tellie, and it doesn’t really feel like a room to sit in by yourself.

The only time I’d really sit in here by myself was whenever Ebb would be out in the garden. She’d keep the doors open and I’d sit in here and drink a beer or drink tea and man the radio for her and keep her company while she chatted away at Davey and me.

“This room is unreasonably nice,” Baz says, dropping into the chair nearest the garden doors with a lazy sprawl. He glares at the rug under the table, the one I got Ebb for her fortieth birthday. I bought it off an old lady who was cleaning out her house to raise money for her grandkid’s schooling. “You don’t deserve this house, Snow.”

I give him a weak grin and try to push back the thought of Ebb. “I know. Trust me, I know.”

I sit down at the table and pause for a moment. This is where the awkward is gonna hit. I just know it. It’s one thing for us to talk easily in the kitchen, when I’m distracted and Baz is buzzing about, being a smug prick, but now it’s just us, eating breakfast next to my garden, and it’s all gonna fall apart and get weird.

“Paul tweeted at me, by the way,” Baz says, taking a small bite of his omelette. “He wants to be a guest.”

I laugh—way louder than I mean to—but a wave of fucking relief crashes over me.

“Paul! Yeah, of course, we’ve got to have him on.” I dig out a piece of bacon and throw it to Davey. (You’ve got to feed him while you eat, or else he’ll sit there and judge you.)

“Mhmm,” Baz says. “I thought so too.” He pauses and frowns at his omelette. “This is actually good. What the fuck, Snow.”

“Er, sorry?”

Baz cuts another piece and shakes his head.

“Anyway, we should make Shepard interview Paul.” He takes a bite, looking angry about it. “I’d love to watch his face when he gets asked about ghouls.”

“Yeah,” I say, watching Baz throw a pepper to Davey and lean back in his chair, completely fucking at ease in my house.

I feel really small, right now. In a good way. Not small like I’m pathetic. More like...small like I’m content. Like if my whole universe were just in this room, right now, watching the weak sun come through the water droplets on the glass walls and reflect off Baz’s face, I’d be okay. 

“Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’d love that.”

**BAZ**

“Nah, absolutely not. She could take him.” Snow swings the hand holding his coffee cup wide and nearly hits me. I pull my hand out of the sink and flick water at him.

“Wellbelove is good, but she’s not better than Messi. Who dropped you on your head as a child?”

Snow gives me that lazy grin and holds his hand out for the pan I’ve just finished scrubbing.

“We won’t know till we put them head to head.”

“You have watched _three_ of her matches,” I say, exasperated by Snow’s relentless optimism and dedication to his favourite players. “I’ve known her for years, and I’m telling you, she’s good, but she’s not—”

“Did you watch her kick that defender in the last match?” Snow argues, wiping down his pan and putting it back on the rack while he waits for me to finish the next dish. “Then she turns and smiles at the ref. Should have been a red card, easy, but they let her get away with it.”

“Your point?” I look away from Snow’s overly happy smile. It’s so soppy it’s nearly dripping off his face.

“My point is that she’d just kick Messi in the shin and leave him in her dust. One match and she could end his career.”

I snort and hand Snow the plate.

“The inside of your brain is a terrifying place.” I turn off the sink and wipe my hands down on the tea towel. (A MumU one—I didn’t know we even sold tea towels, but of course Snow has one.)

“Want the last of the coffee?” Snow asks, holding up the pot I made. I hand him my mug silently. (Also MumU—though this one, thankfully, is from before my time. It has the old logo, the one the club used back when we were kids.)

His fingers brush mine as he takes it and fills it up. I look up, without intending to, and meet his eyes.

He’s very close to me. Crowded into the corner of his kitchen between the stove and sink. He smells like coffee and brown butter and bacon, and he won’t break eye contact.

My hand comes up to take the mug back from him, but instead it brushes his waist, and Snow sucks in a breath.

His foot very carefully presses against the side of mine, and I feel my body lean in.

And suddenly Snow’s dog shoves his nose into my crotch.

I jump back, shooing the monster away, my heart racing. Never in my life have I been so thankful for Snow’s dog as I am in this moment. He’s horribly behaved, completely rabid, but terribly useful for helping me avoid things I know I’ll regret.

I turn away from Snow and pretend to wash my hands at the sink.

“Your dog spit on me,” I say, trying to sound as annoyed and disgusted as possible.

“Poor fucking you,” Snow mutters. I swear I hear him clear his throat.

This entire morning has been painful. Physically painful, like a stitch in my side. I’m not positive what I expected when I walked over this morning—maybe an awkward breakfast, stilted conversation, Snow tripping over himself—but it wasn’t this. This horrifying, lovely ease of domesticity.

I’ve never made breakfast with anyone. Sometimes Lamb would order in room service, or I’d go out and get us coffee. Once or twice Fiona and I have crowded around a kettle to boil water for oatmeal. But I’ve never shared in the act of preparing a meal like it’s nothing, like it’s normal and routine.

If anyone asked me, I’d deny it. But I want that routine.

I’ve spent this month wondering what I want the rest of my life to look like. If ending things with Lamb was the wake-up call that I wanted something different, this morning, passing dirty dishes back and forth with Snow has been a staggering, humiliating realisation that I’m not sure I could ever accept anything else.

This is why I took the break. This is what I was looking for—this kind of simple, quietness.

I could quit football tomorrow and have this.

Maybe not with Snow. I’m not sure if he’d have me. I’m not sure if whatever this is between us would exist if I didn’t have football. It’s hard to riddle out how much Snow likes me, versus my skill. And despite whatever I thought I saw and heard after the Newcastle match, I don’t know if Snow even feels that way about me. Or men in general. Aside from one drunken comment, he’s never said anything. What just happened—Snow’s intake of breath, the closeness, us almost—

Well, I’m not exactly about to make the first move, am I? It would be predatory. And if he doesn’t want it, he could run to the papers and tell them I kissed him. My life is in too much flux right now to take this risk.

And if I’m going to base my entire future on one decent breakfast, I shouldn’t necessarily assume that Snow would be involved.

But I could have this with _someone_ , surely. If not Snow, someone else. This kind of comfort would be possible with anyone, I’m sure. Maybe it’s best that Snow can’t be depended on. I meant what I told Lamb, I won’t make this decision for another person. I’ll only do it for myself.

But if I _do_ turn my life over, it would be nice to know there was someone to see me through it. Not Snow. Anyone. Maybe...maybe if no one would have me, I could even go back to Lamb, see if he was serious—

“So, if you were serious about rewatching the World Cup match so we could talk about it on the podcast,” Snow says, startling me, “I’ve, er, got it recorded.”

“Oh my God,” I say, horrified. “Do you record all my matches?”

“No!” Snow says, far too high and far too fast. “I record all the England World Cup games.” He glares at me. “I did it before you even joined the team!”

“Mhmm,” I say.

“Shut up,” he mutters, turning away.

“I didn’t say anything,” I say lightly. I will not spend this whole day ruminating on breakfasts with Snow. I will not. “But by all means, lead the way. Show me your collection of videos of me.”

“I fucking hate you,” Snow mutters, stalking toward his living room.

***

The dog and I have made an unsteady truce, and have agreed to share opposite ends of Snow’s sofa. I do owe him for his service earlier. Perhaps he recognises my gratitude.

Or maybe it’s because I bribed him with bacon.

This sofa is unreasonably, unfairly comfortable. Plush and deep, with nice pillows with small goats stitched on to them, set up in front of Snow’s large television.

I may have fallen asleep. Only for a moment. And only because Snow or his aunt most have sold their soul for this sofa, and because it smells like the pub—warm, hoppy, a bit like old wood.

“Hey, Baz,” Snow says. His voice is very quiet, and I blink at him.

“What?” I say, sitting up. I wasn’t asleep.

The TV is dark, and last I looked we hadn’t even hit midtime yet, but I definitely did not fall asleep.

“I’ve got to go to work,” Snow says, lifting one corner of his mouth. I stretch my head to the side and notice that someone has put a blanket on me.

I glance at the dog and he gives me a withering look that makes it clear he didn’t do it.

“Of course,” I say, moving the blanket and trying to will my limbs to sit up. It’s more difficult than I expected, and I end up sitting there, blinking at Snow a few times.

“Is there chloroform in your sofa or something?” I ask, struggling to wake my limbs up. “I feel like I’ve been drugged.”

“Nah, it’s just comfortable,” Snow says with a grin, holding out a hand to help me up. I take it, letting him pull me to my feet until I’m standing straight and above him, like I prefer. “You’re welcome to come take a nap on it whenever. You can keep Davey company.”

It’s a testament to how boring my life has been that this offer actually sounds compelling.

“I think I’ll pass on giving your creature a chance to strangle me in my sleep, but thank you.”

I follow Snow through the living room and toward his entry way. He stops in front of the hook where I hung my jacket, right next to his and the dog lead. Davey follows us, his claws clicking along in the quiet house.

“Nah, I mean it,” Snow says, picking up my jacket. “I mean, I know you’re only here for like, not even another week, but….” he trails off awkwardly before looking up. “You’re welcome any time.”

 _One more week_. It hits me like a bad tackle. I know I’m running out of time. My lease on the house is up, and my decision is due, and Snow—

Snow is giving me that look again, the same one from the kitchen, and I wonder if he’s going to kiss me. 

_Make your move, Simon Snow. Make your move, because I’m too big of a coward to_.

But instead he just hands me the coat and steps away.

“Thanks for coming over. It was…” he cleans his throat and runs a hand through his curls. “It was really nice.”

I search my brain for a withering reply while I put my jacket on. Something to cut him down, that won’t give away just how much I enjoyed this, even while every second of it was excruciating.

“Yes,” I say instead, opening the door into the drizzling rain. “Yes it was.”

It’s for the best that he stepped away. It would be too complicated. I don’t even know what I want any more. I don’t even know what I’m doing. And the world is not black and white. It’s not “kiss this man and you’ll be happy.” Christ, it’s not even a case of happy or not-happy. There’s no right choice or wrong choice, and there’s so many branching possibilities that I could get lost thinking through each and every one of them.

“See you, Snow,” I say, looking over my shoulder. He’s standing in the doorway, my empty coffee mug in his hand, the dog at his side, watching me go.

I wish I hadn’t looked back.


	15. SQUEAKY BUM TIME

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two men and a dog take a walk up a hill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *alex ferguson voice* it's squeaky bum time, boys  
> *louis van gaal voice* I am twitching my ass

**BAZ**

It’s not even dawn yet. It’s freezing and dim, and I can see my breath clouding out in front of me as I knock again. It’s the only sound on the entire street, aside from a handful of birds.

Inside there’s noise—the dog barking, the sound of feet, the slow shuffle until the lock clicks back and Snow pulls open the door.

His hair is a mess. He’s in pyjama bottoms and no shirt, a zip up hoodie thrown on hastily and hanging open.

“Baz?” he slurs, blinking out at me. He’s squinting. “What’re you doing here? I thought you had to go back to Mummers today.”

I’d stayed around the pub last night, after we’d recorded the podcast, and said goodbye. I’d shook his hand like we were business associates.

“I do,” I say, pulling my hands behind my back and clasping them. “I am.”

Snow squints at me. He looks warm. I’m freezing, slowly turning to ice, but Snow looks warm and soft and safe.

“What’s wrong, then?”

I watch my breath form in the air in front of me.

“I don’t know what to do.”

It sounds rather more like a whisper than I’d like it to.

When I look back at Snow, he’s more awake.

“Alright,” he says, stepping aside and holding the door open. “Alright, come on in.”

***

The infernal dog races ahead of us, his barks getting lost in the wind as he searches out rabbit holes or mice or some other harmless creature to torment.

With Snow beside me, dressed, a thermos of coffee and piece of toast in my hand, I’m feeling very stupid. And humiliated. Humiliatingly stupid, for having had a panic at 5:30 a.m. and dragging Snow out of his house for it.

Admittedly, I would have been content to sit on his sofa and have a panic, but he wanted to walk.

“I think better when I move,” he admitted, handing me the toast and a hat. It’s not MumU. It’s just black.

We climb up the hill, toward the scrubby area where the cell tower sits and looks down, almost entirely in silence. I assumed we were going to keep walking, keep trudging until the sun comes up and maybe find our way back to the church like we did that first day, but Snow surprises me when he stops, drops his bookbag and collapses to the ground at the top of the hill where it looks out over the whole village.

I really don’t want to sit on the ground. The grass is damp with frosted dew, and it’s going to soak through my trousers.

He pulls out a throw blanket (MumU, of course) and sits down on it and then pats the spot next to him.

I sit, because I’m weak.

“So,” he says, taking a sip from his thermos. “It’s squeaky bum time.”

“It’s squeaky bum time,” I answer, and then we go silent.

I have to be back in Mummers in six hours. I have a meeting with Fiona and the chairmen and the manager of the team, and at that point, I am going to tell them something.

I glance over at Snow, his cheeks flushed and his nose bright red as he watches his dog romp.

“I’m coming out,” I say, breaking the silence. Snow looks over at me and grins.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “No matter what, I’m going to come out. So the question is, do I risk it and try to keep playing? Or do I...retire.”

Snow puts down his thermos and lays back on the ground. I don’t want to join him. I’ll get grass in my hair.

I join him.

“Look, whatever you choose, I support it,” he says, once we’re both lying on our backs and watching the sky shift from dark grey to light grey. “All of us will, all your friends, the whole village.”

It’s hard to imagine the village as my friends.

It’s hard to imagine friends.

“I’m going to make a list,” I say, sitting up and reaching for my mobile. “Pros and cons. No one has ever gone wrong with a pros and cons list.”

“Nah, nah, fuck that,” Snow says, putting his hand over mine and batting my phone away. “I’ve got a better idea, come on.”

He stands up and reaches into his backpack and pulls out a football. It’s old and scruffy, the edges peeling away at parts and so dingy it’s more brown than white. I haven’t seen a ball this pathetic since I was a kid.

“Wanna play?”

I stare at the ball. It’s not a terrible idea. Sometimes the only time my life makes sense is when I’m on the pitch, a ball between my feet, getting ready to set up a score. Like the whole world zeros in and I know that this is my purpose.

“I’m not responsible for the ego bruising you’re about to take,” I say, snatching the ball and dropping it to the ground so I can run my foot over it. “If you cry from embarrassment, I will leave.”

Snow shoulders me out of the way, steals the ball, and kicks it to Davey.

“Oh, no you don’t!” I call, chasing after him. I will not be upstaged by Simon Snow and a goddamn dog. “No one said this was two-on-one!”

***

“If I retire, I’ll have to get a job,” I shout, dodging the dog and kicking the ball to Snow.

“Poor you, everyone’s got a job!” he shouts back, taking the ball toward the makeshift goal we’ve demarcated with the thermoses.

“And it sends a message,” I continue, circling around to intercept before Snow can score. “It says very clearly that you cannot play and be gay.”

“It says that football’s fucked up,” Snow agrees, shouldering me hard and stealing the ball back. He takes it back the other way, but gets blocked by the dog.

“But say I keep playing and come out, and then everything is awful. What if it kills the sport for me? What if _I_ kill the sport?” I take the ball and dribble it away, flicking it up and bouncing it off my knees as I speak. “I just want to be normal.”

The dog leaps after me, and I have to duck away, giving Snow time to come around and try to take possession. He has a manic grin on his face, tearing at the edges of his smile. Every time he has to duck around me, he makes this rough, breathless giggling noise.

“You’re Baz Pitch,” he huffs, crowding me to get at the ball. “You’re never going to be normal.”

“That’s only because I’m good at football,” I argue, throwing out my arms to block him.

“No, it’s because you’re you.” He shoulders me again, harder, and the dog swoops in and grabs the ball, clenching it between his teeth and trying to shake it.

“Dave, no!” Snow mutters, wrenching it away from the dog and throwing it down the field. The three of us take off after it. I pull my speed to let Snow get there first.

He kicks it long and smiles after it like he’s just scored a goal.

“I’m just starting to love football again,” I shout, racing toward the ball. “I don’t know if I want to lose it.”

Meeting the ball, I jump up and hit a clean header. It goes soaring over the dog and down the field.

“It’s not like I have a partner to consider, either,” I shout, coming even with Snow as we both go after the ball, the dog close on our heels. “I’ll have to do this alone. The brunt is going to be on me, and it’s just—”

Snow pulls out ahead of me, closing in on the ball. I throw my body into a slide tackle.

I hit Snow hard, taking him out low, and we go down in a mess of limbs, the dog barking madly, trying to join in it before he realises the ball is now unoccupied and goes chasing after it.

I have Snow pinned to the ground, my face above his, both of us breathing hard.

He grins up at me. He hasn’t been able to stop smiling. I think I might be smiling too.

“I wouldn’t do this for another person,” I say slowly, “but I don’t want to do it alone.”

“You wouldn’t have to do it alone,” he says. His breath is so warm on my face. The smile drops, and he looks serious. So serious. “You could consider me.”

His cold hands come up and bracket my face, and then he’s kissing me.

Kissing Simon Snow is exactly what I thought it would be like. Warm. Overwhelming. Mind-meltingly simple. His arms go around my neck and his hands start to pull through my hair, and he juts his chin in this way that dares me to stop, dares me to pull away.

I don’t. I couldn’t.

I let my body collapse into it, my hands searching out his sides, trying to wrap him up in it, and I hear him laugh against my lips.

This is what I’ve been looking for. This is what I thought I could never have.

The dog circles us, nosing at us, dropping the sticky, drool-covered football on his, but Snow just keeps shoving him away and kissing me harder.

We break away only when the dog starts licking inside my ear.

“Dave, Jesus Christ—” Snow mutters, pushing the dog away. He’s still trapped beneath me. I’m not sure I’m ever going to let him get up. I’m not sure I’m going to ever let him go, but Snow struggles enough that he manages to flip us, slightly, so I’m on my back now, and Snow has more room to fight the dog. He reaches for the ball and tosses it, and Davey goes flying off after it.

“Baz,” Snow says, turning back to me and putting his large hand to the side of my face again. “Whatever you choose—”

“No,” I say, cutting him off. “I don’t want to talk about that right now.” I turn my face into the side of his hand. A horrifying, sentimental movement. A weak movement. But I don’t want to think about choices and futures and expectations right now. I only want to think about Simon Snow, lighting me up from within when he kisses me.

He’s above me, the weak sun starting to struggle out from the clouds behind his head, and I reach up to find his lips again.

  
  


**SIMON**

Baz won’t stop touching me, and I feel like I’m going to explode.

Even while we stand on my stoop, just trying to get my door unlocked, he’s still pressing cold fingers into my back, crowding me too close. It’s probably because it’s freezing—we’re both sort of wet from the grass and I dunno about him, but I’m frozen through. But his closeness makes me feel bloated and clumsy, and my hands fumble with my keys. It’s like every time Baz touches me—or _fuck_ , kisses me—my whole brain just blinks out.

Finally I get the door open and we hurry inside, Dave pushing past our legs and panting up a storm to go get water. Being inside the warm house somehow makes me feel even _colder_ , like my nose and fingers are going to fall off.

“Shall I put the kettle on?” Baz asks, closing the door. He pulls my hat off and his hair gets messed up along with it. It’s sort of wet, sticking to his cheeks, and he’s got happy eyes. It’s hard to tell with Baz, but if you look, right at the crinkle of his eye, you can tell when he’s happy.

I fucking love seeing him happy.

I push him back into the door, my hands coming up under his jacket, and kiss him hard. He responds immediately. I still can’t bloody believe that he does, that he _wants to_. But he seems to. He seems to really want to.

“No tea then?” he asks against my lips. I pull away and shove my face into his neck.

“I’m so bloody cold I don’t think tea is gonna work,” I mutter, shoving my nose against his skin. He’s so cold that he doesn’t even yelp like a normal person should. “I’m going to take a shower or else I’m going to lose some fingers.”

“Fine,” Baz says, slowly pushing me away. “I’ll make myself breakfast then.”

I put my hand on his chest and hold him in place.

“Nah,” I say, leaning in to kiss him again. I can feel him pause against me as he thinks. For someone brilliant, he can be a fucking idiot sometimes. Pulling back, I grab his hand. “C’mon.”

I try not to think while I drag him upstairs behind me. Try to just turn off my brain. When I start thinking too much, that’s when I start to shut down and get too overwhelmed. If I stop and think this through I’ll just make a mess of it. I meant what I told Baz—I’m better when I’m moving.

Baz trails me silently. He’s being almost uncharacteristically cooperative as I pull him into the bathroom and close the door. One look at his face tells me why. His eyes are starting to droop, the happy crinkles fading away. He’s starting to think this through. He’s probably making fucking pro and con lists in his head right now.

I reach behind me and turn on the shower, not taking my eyes off of him, and then slowly shove his jacket off.

He lets me do it, but he’s still hesitant. He’s still worrying, I can tell. Still holding himself stiff and tight, not like before, not like when he was crowding me against the door, trying to be as close as possible.

I lean up and kiss him, and he relaxes. Pulls his arms around me and pushes off my jacket as well. Lets me work my fingers under his shirt and pull it off. His body is so cold.

We walk backward, trying to kick off shoes and trousers and clothing as we go, but it’s clumsy and sort of a mess, and I nearly eat it when I stumble trying to get into the shower, but he catches me.

I know my face has to be fucking flaming, I’ve probably got that really shit, splotchy thing going on my chest, but I’m trying not to think about that as Baz kisses me against the tile. I’m trying not to think about _anything_ except for the way that the water is warming his cold skin under my hands.

He has to go back to Mummers in a few hours and do his duty, and I know he’s going to panic and fret the whole way there. But I’ve got him here now, and I can see when he’s panicking, and whenever I kiss him he seems to stop worrying.

So I figure I’m just going to kiss him as long as I can and try not to overthink this.

***

Baz looks good in my shirt.

I mean, technically it's his shirt. Has his name on it and everything. But still.

He nearly hissed at me when I handed it over and gave me this really long-suffering look that was kind of ruined by the fact that his hair was plastered to his head, making him look a bit like a drowned rat.

But a nice drowned rat. A really fit, surprisingly sweet drowned rat. A drowned rat that washes your hair for you and rubs little circles into your shoulders while kissing your neck.

He looks good in my joggers, too, even though they’re a bit too short, and even better in my socks, and he looks like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be, curled up on the sofa in the living room, one foot tucked under him while he drinks tea.

The rain has started and it’s beating off the glass in the extension, and I’ve got a fire going. And I’m wondering what would happen if I just laid down and put my head in his lap.

I can’t, though. Davey beat me to it. Fucking dog.

“What do I do, Snow?” Baz asks. His voice is low, calm. He sounds more steady than he did earlier. Seems more confident since we got out of the shower. Smug prick.

“You don’t want me to tell you what to do,” I say. My voice is a bit croaky, and I prop my elbow against the back of the sofa and rest my head on my hand so I can watch him. “You hate being told what to do. And this is your decision.”

“I _do_ want you to tell me what you think, though,” he insists, shifting a bit. He seems to hesitate, then reaches out his hand and runs one long finger over my knee. “I feel like I’m so weighed down by the expectations and implications of whatever I choose that I’m trapped. Like I’m locked in a box, and I’m just waiting for someone to open it.”

Every time Baz says something like this, every time he tells me the _truth_ I feel like I’ve been hit by a car. He never makes eye contact and he always shifts away and he’s so bloody awkward about it that I can tell he doesn’t just say these things. He doesn’t just tell people these things.

I don’t know what I did to deserve being the person he tells these things.

I drop my hand to touch his finger and hook it around his while I think. I want to be careful with my words, I don’t want to just rush in.

It’s easy to look at him here—on my sofa, with my dog, filling up my whole empty house and looking bloody perfect—and feel like this is right, and this is where he belongs. But this isn’t Baz.

Or it’s not all of Baz. As soft and happy as he looks now, that’s just one side. He’s also ruthless and determined and fearless. He’s a king on the pitch, and no matter how much he thinks he could turn away from football and settle into a quiet life with a partner and a dog (blimey, that sounds nice), I know he couldn’t.

Because no matter what he says, he loves football, and he needs it. And football needs him.

Baz Pitch may be one of the greatest players England’s ever seen, and his time isn’t over yet. Honestly, sometimes I think he’s just getting started.

“I think you should go back to football,” I say, squeezing his finger. “I think you should go back and keep playing and coming out.”

I look up, finally, and he’s looking back at me.

“I think so too,” he says, his voice soft. “I think that’s been the plan all along.”

“Then what’s stopping you?” I ask. Baz’s throat bobs as he swallows.

“I’m a coward.”

“Bullshit.” I reach forward and grab his waist so I can pull him toward me. Davey makes an angry huff and jumps off the sofa, and I’m able to drag Baz nearly into my lap.

I like him here. It’s been killing me to not touch him.

“Snow—”

“You called me Simon earlier.”

Baz pauses and gives me that look—that fond, annoyed look. The look from the photo he put up of us. Maybe I wasn’t the only one looking like an idiot in that photo.

“Snow,” he continues, because he can never back down, “this is going to be horrible. It’s going to be a battle.”

“A battle you’ll win,” I argue, leaning forward to thunk my forehead against his. “You’ll take it on your own terms, on your own time, and you’ll win. You’ll get through it.” I twist my hand up under his shirt and rub my thumb against his stomach. “And I’ll help.”

Baz closes his eyes and leans his forehead into mine.

“It’s going to take awhile,” he says. “There will be plans to make and agreements to secure. And I’ll have to be back in Mummers to make this happen.”

My stomach twists into a little knot, but I nod. I knew this. It’s not like Baz was going to just...stay here. Move in and sleep on my sofa.

Move in and be there in my bed every morning.

There wasn’t a single fucking second—not even in the shower, when we were locked together, when Baz was whispering just great fucking things in my ear—when I thought that would happen. I knew he’d go back.

And especially if he does this…. I tell him no one will care, but I’m not stupid. I know it’ll be a big deal. It’s going to be mega. He’s going to be amazing and perfect, and he’s not going to want to set up with some pub owner in his parents’ village.

I don’t have a big future ahead of me. I don’t have a _purpose_ and a _calling_. My life is going to seem very small to him.

He has to go back, though. I _want_ him to go back, I want him to be incredible, and I’m so fucking proud of him that I’m burning with it. But it also feels bad. In a fucked up way, losing Baz almost feels worse than losing Ebb.

At least with Ebb, it just happened—there one moment, gone the next. We caught her illness too late, so I didn’t get any warning, so I didn’t have anything to dread. And it was okay. I told myself it was okay because I knew that I’d gotten to have her for years. I was never meant to have her, and her whole life was never meant to be mine, but I’d gotten to have it, impossibly, for a bit, and she’d left me a future. She’d _given me a life_.

I’ve barely gotten to have Baz, and it’s ending right as it starts. I got a peek of a future—a future with Baz in my socks on my sofa, washing my dishes and playing with my dog—but I know I can’t have it.

I know I can’t keep him.

“Here, let me make you breakfast,” I say, pulling back from Baz’s arms and going to stand. It hurts to think about things you can’t have. It’s easier not to.

“What? Oh, no.” He puts his mug aside and looks up at me from my sofa. “I can’t stay. I have to get back to meet Fiona.”

There’s a lump in my throat. There’s a fucking lump in my throat. I’m not going to cry. Not while he’s here.

“Snow,” he says, his face starting to fall.

I turn around and start picking up his clothes that I’d put by the fire to dry.

“Snow.”

“Let me make you toast for the road or something, at least.”

“Simon.”

I turn around at that. Baz stands up from the sofa and crosses over to me, reaching for my hand.

“I’m going to come back,” he says, his face fierce, his tone dangerous. “I’m coming back. We have the podcast, remember? And…” he trails off and looks at the space between us. “I’m coming back. I promise.”

“I know,” I say, nodding. My throat’s tight. “Yeah, of course, I know.”

“Simon,” Baz says again, taking another step. “I want you to know….”

“Yeah?” I whisper. His lips are very close to mine.

“Deciding what to do with my life has been hard. It’s been an impossible choice,” he whispers, bringing his arms up around my waist. “But you….”

He trails off. I don’t know what I want more: for him to finish his bloody sentence or for him to lean down and kiss me.

“You are very, very easy to choose,” he whispers, and kisses me. His arms hold me tight, like iron around my waist, and I grab him back like I’m holding on to dear life.

“I’m choosing you,” he says, kissing my forehead. “And I keep my promises.”

He pulls away and takes his clothes from my hands. Turns and even pets Davey on the head once, which is how I know that he’s leaving. That something’s really shifting.

He heads to the door silently and Davey and I follow him like we’re on a string, tied along to Baz’s finger and destined to trail behind him everywhere. He stops just once, to put on his jacket, and kiss me again.

And then he leaves.

I sit down on the floor of my entry way and try to breathe. Try to steady my hands. Try to believe him.

Davey shoves his head into my lap, and the soft _thud thud_ of his tail is the only sound in the house.

“It’s alright, boy,” I say, scratching behind his ear and tilting my head back into the wall. “He’s gonna come back.”


	16. HOME AND AWAY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Group chats, bussies, RB Leipzig and Calvin & Hobbes. Baz Pitch and his silly friends. I feel love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the skipped day! We will be back next week with our regularly scheduled chapters, thanks for being patient! PS: portions of the review mentioned in here were ripped from the absolutely stunning review that Radio 4's Feedback did on That Peter Crouch Podcast. 
> 
> PPS: listen to the Mummers FC playlist!
> 
> -Banana

**SIMON**

“Did Baz say when he’d be here?” Shep asks, frowning down at his watch. “He’s running a bit late.”

“He’ll be here,” I say, handing off a plate for Penny to take to one of the nearby tables. “He’s coming from a meeting.”

“What kind of meeting does he have at four on a Friday?” Shep asks, frowning. He upends a bucket load of ketchup onto his chips. “Also, is it just me, or is he always in meetings lately?”

“S’not that many,” I say with a shrug, turning away. “Who knows what’s a normal amount of meetings for footballers?”

I pull Shep an ale and put it in front of him, then turn away before he can tell that I’m lying. Baz says it’s easy to tell when I’m lying. My face scrunches up like I have shit, apparently.

And the thing is, Shep is right. Baz _has_ been in a million meetings. He’s been back playing for three months and I swear it seems like he spends more time locked in a room with Fiona and the chairmen than he does actually bloody playing.

“Maybe,” Shep says, holding out a chip for Penny as she walks up to grab another plate. Without pausing, she opens her mouth. Shep throws the chip and Penny stoops, catches it and starts chewing with a pleased expression. Shep lets out a whoop and high-fives her.

It’s sort of weird seeing them get along, to be honest, but I wouldn’t say that to her. Weirder things have happened. And besides, the last thing I want to do is piss Pen off. Thank God she’s helping me out with the pub tonight—podcast days are starting to get as crazy as match days. I might have to hire an actual, real waitress sometime soon.

Baz said I should hire Mordelia, but I don’t really fancy having my customers killed. I think I’ve still got bruises on my neck from the last time I went to his parents’ for lunch.

(Honestly, Mordelia trying to kill me was kind of the least awkward part of all that.)

“Seriously, though,” Shep says, I nearly fucking groan. Shep’s a good sort, and I really do like him, and he and Pen seem to be going great, even if their relationship confuses the shit out of me. But he’s like a dog with a bone. He never lets _anything_ go.

“Seriously what?” I bark, pulling a few more ales.

“Is he okay? He seems…off.”

I turn back to Shep to see him looking all earnest. Proper worried. Some of my annoyance fades. He doesn’t know about Baz—or Baz and me (whatever Baz and me are, which fuck if I know)—but he is Baz’s friend, and he clearly cares about him.

“It’s probably just the stress of being back,” I say. Which _isn’t_ a lie. I can tell he’s stressed. I think he’s enjoying playing again, but there are still nights that I’ll get a call from him after my shift and he’ll be so tense it’s like talking to a bloody wall.

Most of the time I don’t mind that I don’t see him every day—I’ve got the pub, and Davey and Pen and things to keep me busy—but it’s times like that, when he’s on the phone and acting like an uptight prig that I wish I could just grab him and shake him and make him relax.

More than once I’ve nearly gotten in the car and driven to Mummers.

But I don’t think he’d want that. He says once he’s out, it’ll be different. And I don’t mind. I’m completely willing to exist on his timeline, and I’d never want to rush him on this. But every time he has another meeting where they suggest pushing it out a few months, or another season, or indefinitely, and then they go round in circles about what would be the best way to do it, and if Baz is sure he needs to make a statement, it just seems like….

Like it’s not going to happen. And it’s gutting, honestly. Not for me. For him. I know he wants this. He wants this more than _anything_ and I wish I could just…push it.

But this isn’t my battle.

“It’s just that I’m sort of worried for him,” Shepard is still saying, crunching away on his chips. “And whatever happened to his whole break thing? What was it that he wanted to leverage? Did he ever tell you?”

“Babe, drop it,” Penny says, swooping into the conversation. “Simon doesn’t know what’s happening in Baz’s head, and even if he did, he wouldn’t tell you.”

I give Pen a grateful look and go back to wiping down the counters. She knows. I _had_ to tell her, because that’s a huge thing to keep from your best friend. It would be one thing if I was just seeing someone casually. I don’t always tell her all the details of my dates or short-lived relationships, because I don’t think she’d care, but hiding Baz is different.

I don’t know what this thing is with Baz and I, but I don’t think it’s casual. Every time he stays at mine after we tape the podcast and I wake up to see him there, or he brings me tea, or he kisses me….

I don’t think he thinks it’s casual either. If it was, I don’t think he’d keep coming back.

“I’m a _journalist_ ,” Shep whines. He’s got ketchup on his glasses. “I can’t just _drop things._ ”

“Chins up, straight ahead,” I say, pointing to the door where a crowd is now growing. I know what that means. My stomach starts to clench, just like it does every time I know he’s about to walk through the door.

Baz pushes his way through the crowd, shaking hands, clapping someone on the back, and I swear my heart nearly bursts.

He just looks so _easy_ in his skin, which is mad, because I know he’s not. I know his head is full of doubts and anxiety and he’s constantly overthinking everything. But when he’s talking football or playing football he looks like he could fucking float. He’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.

“Snow. American,” Baz says, reaching us at the bar. He nods to us both and my heart beats a bit faster.

“You’re late,” I say, grinning at him. If he grins back it means good news. It means the meeting went well.

He doesn’t grin back. My stomach drops.

“Shall we do this?” he asks, his voice a bit grim.

Fuck. Guess it didn’t go well, then.

“Yup, just give me a tick,” I say, handing him his white wine and grabbing my lager. He and Shepard head to the table in the corner where the mics are set up, and I drag a stool over to stand on it.

“Oi, listen up!” I shout into the crowd, who all fall silent. “You know the drill. And if you don’t, it’s simple: we’re going to record over there. Keep the chatter down, place your drink orders at the bar with Pen, and kitchen will re-open when we’re done. All good?”

The crowd cheers back at me.

“Can I get a rarebit before the kitchen closes?” Gareth calls over the crowd.

“No!” I shout back, climbing down and making my way over to Baz and Shep.

I settle down between them and pull the mic toward me. Under the table, I can feel Baz tap my foot twice.

 _Hello_.

I tap his foot back.

_Hi._

I take a sip of my lager and look at him out of the corner of my eye. He looks tired. He looks so fucking tired. He doesn’t sleep enough, except when he’s with me, and I don’t know if he eats enough when I’m not feeding him. He’s been practising and training like a madman, and it shows in his playing, but at what expense?

What was the point of taking that month off if he’s just going to wear himself down again and keep living a secret?

“Welcome, everyone, back to the pod!” Shepard says, breaking through my thoughts. The crowd in the pub cheers and holds up their drinks. “Before we get started today, we have a new review in for the podcast. And, you know guys, I think it’s even better than last week’s review, which was just amazed that Baz has a real personality. Baz, want to read this one?”

“No.”

“Simon, take it away, then,” Shepard says, already passing me his iPad. I squint down at the screen.

“ _Footpod is an awkwardly-named podcast featuring Baz Pitch and his silly friends_ ,” I read. “ _It does not seem to have a theme other than putting Pitch in a position to regularly argue with his very laddish companion, Simon Snow. It features crass language, immature squabbles, no sustaining structure, a host who does not know anything about football and an alarming endorsement of public drunkenness_.”

“They’re not wrong,” Baz says with a shrug that I know he’s learned from me.

“Yeah…” I say, handing the iPad back. “Am I really that laddish?”

“The laddiest, my friend,” Shepard says, raising his glass. Baz and I both make faces and raise our glasses back.

“So now we’ve endorsed public drunkeness,” Shep says, “I thought we could play a game.”

“Please no,” Baz says. I tap his foot again. Not to say hello. Just because I like to hear him talk.

“So, I’ve been saving tweets we get that are particularly good, and I thought it would be fun to have you guys read some of them aloud for our listeners.”

“No way,” I say, shaking my head. “I’ve seen the things people tweet at us. Last week I had to ask Baz what a bussy is.”

The pub erupts in laughter, but Shep just tilts his head.

“What _is_ a bussy?” he asks.

“Why does everyone assume I know?” Baz snaps, throwing me a nasty look. “When you asked the group chat, Snow, may I remind you that I was not the one who answered.”

It was Dev who answered, which led to a really terrible fucking conversation that I never wanted to be involved in.

I only made the chat to try to plan a birthday dinner for Baz (which kept getting cancelled because of games and meetings) and now it’s kind of haunting us.

“Wait, you two are in a group chat?” Shep says. “Who all is in the chat?”

“Agatha Wellbelove,” Baz says. “My cousin Dev and his mate Niall.”

“Also Penny,” I add

Shep’s eyes are huge.

“You guys said we couldn’t have a group chat because Baz’s phone couldn’t send to more than one person at a time!”

“Er—” I start. I’d forgotten about that. I feel a bit bad about that, actually, but Baz refused to get dragged into a group chat with Shep. Said he’d blow us all up with memes.

“It’s a group chat for people who know what bussies are,” Baz says cooly. Jesus fucking Christ.

“If I know what a bussy is, can I join the chat?” Shep asks.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, leaning back. If Baz wants to keep his secret, this is probably the worst way to go about it.

It is sort of my fault for bringing up bussies. This is probably the crass language the review was talking about.

“Google it!” Trixie yells from the far corner, and a few more people laugh.

“Yes,” Baz says, leaning forward and grinning. “Google it, Shepard. Then we’ll let you into the clubhouse.”

“My dude, you think I won’t,” Shep says with an easy going grin. He grabs his phone and taps something into it. “Alright. According to Google, it is a term used to refer to an—”

Shep stops and gazes evenly at Baz and me. “Wow. Y’all really were gonna make me say the word anus.”

“Still want us to read tweets?” Baz asks, leaning back in his chair. Shep seems to consider it for a moment.

“Nah, actually, I’ve changed my mind. So, y’all got a topic in mind?”

“I’ve been busy trying to get my team to the FA cup finals,” Baz says. His face is just all eyebrows, and I can tell tonight is one of the nights he’s just not into this. Sometimes he lights up when we start doing the podcast, but sometimes it seems like he’s really calling it in. That’s when he starts getting snobby and dismissive. “Snow?”

“Er….” I trail off. I’ve been busy worrying about Baz. “Nope.”

“Okay, then, let’s open it up to the crowd. What should we watch the boys fight about today?”

“Super league!” someone calls. I clap my hands and point at them. I’m gonna fucking salvage this. If I work at it, I can always pull Baz out of a mood.

“Super league, brill,” I say, turning back to Baz. “Alright, Pitch, let’s make a super league. Any team, any country, let’s say… twenty teams. Name your first one.”

Baz pauses and takes a sip of his wine.

“How many French teams can I pick?”

That makes me actually sputter. I was planning on just kind of poking at him until we got into our normal bickering mode, which he seems to like, but this question has really just knocked me off my feet.

“How many French teams do you _want_ to pick?” I ask nervously.

Baz pauses and is clearly thinking.

“Three.”

“What the _fuck_ ,” I say, shaking my head. “No. New rules, only one Ligue 1 team allowed, and you’re picking Paris Saint Germain. Next.”

“You can’t just pick for me, Snow, that’s not the game.”

“And why was your first thought about France? Why wasn’t your first question how many English teams you can include?”

“You have to establish the parameters first,” Baz responds, like I’m an idiot. I love when he uses that voice. “Obviously once I know how many teams I’m pulling from other nations, then I can properly choose how many English teams to include.”

“If you don’t pick Newcastle, Paul is never going to speak to us again.”

“Well Paul stood us up for the podcast last month, so Paul is no longer my friend.”

“He had to work!” I argue. “Give the man some slack.”

“I can’t,” Baz says, shaking his head sadly. “He’s a Newcastle supporter. It’s alright, though. I know Paul understands.”

“Yeah,” I admit, taking another sip of lager. “He probably does. Good man.”

Baz raises his wine. “Good man.”

We both drink.

“Out of curiosity, are y’all in a group chat with Paul?” Shep asks.

Baz and I glance at each other.

“So, Germany,” I say awkwardly.

“Anything but RB Leipzig,” Baz cuts in quickly.

“Obviously,” I say, making a face. “Christ, Leipzig wasn’t even in the running.”

“What’s wrong with Leipzig?” Shep asks.

“You can’t buy a team to greatness,” Baz says with a dismissive flick of his wrist. I nod.

“Damn right. Team has to come up on heart and skill, not a rich owner.”

“You can just say Man City!” yells a voice from the crowd that sounds a lot like Dev. The crowd starts booing.

Shepard looks at Baz and I and looks so confused I honestly feel sad for him.

“What’s wrong with Man City?”

“Snow,” Baz says, turning to me with a serious look on his face, “I’m going to need more wine.”

**BAZ**

While Snow takes a shower, I put on the kettle, pull his curtains and clean the dishes from his sink. It’s probably an overreaction, but the last thing I need is for some paparazzi to sell photos of me doing another man’s dishes at midnight.

It’s bad enough that anyone can see us walk back to Snow’s together. He insists there’s no need to worry: everyone knows we’re friends, and no one in the village would say anything if they suspected otherwise. I don’t know if I believe him. But I do have to admit that in the past three months of nights spent at Snow’s and mornings kissing him on the stoop, not a single hint of it has reached the papers.

Maybe Snow is right. Maybe I just need to relax.

The shower cuts off just as the kettle turns off, and I measure out tea and water into the (now clean) mugs and try not to yawn. I could go to bed happily, this moment, but not Snow. I know he’s always wired up after he closes the pub and needs to wind down from the day, otherwise he’ll just sit in bed and talk at me until I get so annoyed I want to throttle him. Or he’ll go silent and huffy and toss and turn and keep me from sleeping.

I wander into his glass extension, the dog trotting behind me. I think I intended to turn on the radio or something, but I’m so tired that I lean my head against the glass and ended up closing my eyes.

I’m so tired I could sleep right now, standing up, against the glass. I’m not just tired. I’m drained.

Every day of my goddamn life has become one massive slog uphill, dragging the MumU leadership along behind me.

They’ll agree, eventually. They already did, as part of my terms for renewing my contract at the end of this year. But that’s not keeping them from dragging their feet. Every time we meet, they’ve decided on a new timeline. Today’s meeting was to tell me they’ve decided to hire an outside PR firm to advise on how best to handle the announcement.

It’s exhausting and upsetting and I just want it over.

Fiona nearly set half of the MumU back rooms on fire at today’s meeting. I’ve never loved her more, standing up and slamming her hand on the table.

“How long is it going to take to hire an outside fucking firm?” she’d shouted. I’m glad she shouted it so I didn’t have to.

There hadn’t been an exact answer as to how long it would take, but I suspect the timeline sits somewhere between “after the FA cup final” and “forever.”

There’s a noise behind me as the radio turns on to the ridiculous oldies station Snow likes, and then his arms around my waist. I’m too tired to lift my head from the glass to lean back into him.

“You look like you’re going to pass out,” he says, rubbing his thumb over my waistband. He taps his fingers in time to the song on the radio. I’ve never understood why he only listens to this odd oldies station. Probably so he can get inspiration for his terrace chants, actually.

“Tired doesn’t appropriately cover it,” I say with a sigh. “The timeline got pushed again.”

I can feel Snow sigh behind me. “Do you want to just go to bed, then? You need rest.”

“Are you tired?” I ask, trying not to yawn.

“Nah. But I’ll scroll through Twitter or something. C’mon.”

“No,” I say, because I can be as stubborn as he is. “I’m not tired.”

“Liar,” Snow says. I can hear the smile in his voice. That wide smile he has, the one that I think about when I go to sleep at night, along with blue eyes and bronze hair.

It really is staggering to remember that I’ve spent the majority of my life and career telling myself that I don’t need anyone, that I’m fine without this.

It’s even more staggering to think that there were fourteen years lost between Snow and me. Fourteen years where I could have had this.

“Come here.” I turn so that I’m facing him, and wrap my arm around his waist and take his other hand in mine. I’ve wasted fourteen years and three months, and I don’t want to think about my future or my expectations right now. I only want to think about him. I only want to feel him.

“What’re you doing?”

“Duelling. What does it look like, Snow?” I take a step forward and push him back a step as I try to start a waltz. “Dancing. Don’t you know how to dance?”

“This is not dancing,” he says, frowning as he nearly trods on my foot. “Dunno what this is but I’ve never danced like this.”

“Fine,” I huff, dropping his hand and stepping away. I feel a bit foolish. I always feel foolish whenever I’d let on just how much I actually _like_ Snow and how much I want to be near him. All the time. Every day.

“No, no, come on, don’t be like that,” he says, grinning and reaching for my hand. “Nah, we can dance.”

“Not if you’re going to be a menace about it.”

“I just don’t know how to dance the way you do, that’s all.” He tries to pull my hand up over my head and spin himself, but he just gets stuck. He looks stupid enough to make me feel a bit less foolish about earlier.

“You’re ridiculous.” I extricate our limbs. “Fine, then, if you’re an expert, show me how you dance.”

I’m nearly too tired to stand, but the smile Simon gives me when I say that could likely fuel a sun.

“Okay, so Ebb and I used to do this thing.” He pushes the chair and the table to the side and hurries over the radio and turns up the volume—so loud, nearly all the way up, so loud that neighbours will surely complain.

Except he doesn’t have any neighbours. He’s an end terrace, and the house next door to him has stood empty since I moved out. So there’s no one around to care as Snow blasts Donna Summer except for me.

“Ebb loved this song!” Snow shouts over the music. “We used to dance to it with the old cat.”

I’ve never met anyone who likes _I Feel Love_ unironically.

He starts moving his shoulders as he advances on me, wiggling his face and shimmying and moving his hands around in the oddest kind of wiggle dance. There’s no way to explain it. The closest comparison I’ve ever seen is _Calvin and Hobbes_.

 _Oh, it’s so good, it’s so good, it’s so good_.

“This is not dancing,” I say, shaking my head as Snow reaches out and grabs my hands and drags me toward him. He swings our hands wide, still shimmying, headbanging to the song as the bass line ramps up and up and up.

_Oh, I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m in love._

“Shut up and move the stick up your arse,” he says, pulling my hand up and spinning me. I turn, nearly stumbling into him, but he grabs me.

“Right, now like, shake out your arms and kick your leg out,” he says, doing the most ridiculous combination of moves. He’s shaking his shoulders, his hands in fists as he bastardises probably every popular 50’s dance move ever created.

And I give up. There’s nothing that can stop Simon Snow. Not reality or taste or sense. Not even sadness or hopelessness. Nothing seems to stop him.

_Oh, I feel love, I feel love, I feel love, I feel love._

Snow moves my arms around, making us thrash together around his glass extension. My arms feel like jelly, my legs nearly unable to hold me up, but Snow keeps one hand on my waist at all times, even when he’s got his eyes closed so he can sing along.

I’m in love with this man. I’m so completely, uselessly in love with this man.

Abandoning any attempt at matching his style, I pull him toward me and turn him so I can wrap my arms around his waist and drop my head into the crook of his neck. He doesn’t seem to mind—he keeps dancing, continues his ridiculous bopping and ducking and lets me drape my weight over him.

***

In the mornings, Snow’s bedroom is brighter than mine back in Mummers. It’s the east-facing window cut into the severe slope of his bedroom ceiling. It lights up the room and gives you a clear view of the tree tops and the sloping hill leading from Tower Terrace down into the village and the green. If I sat up, I could probably see the top of the war memorial that’s just outside the Goat.

I wouldn’t sit up, though. Couldn’t if I wanted to, not with Snow asleep against my chest and his dog curled up against my knee. I’m completely trapped.

Snow stirs against my shoulder, and I wonder if I’ve made a noise or spoken out loud.

“What time’s it?” he mumbles, pressing his face into my shirt. His curls scratch at my chin.

“Still early, love,” I whisper, bringing my hand up to run through the short hair at the back of his neck. “Go back to sleep.”

He wiggles, pulling himself closer to me. The dog makes a dissatisfied grunt and burrows deeper into my knee.

“How long’ve you been up?”

“A bit.” I’ve barely slept. “Go back to sleep.”

“Can’t,” he mumbles. “Once I’m up, I’m up.” He kicks out at the blankets and the dog snarls and jumps off the bed. Taking advantage of my freedom, I loop my arms around Simon and shift us so we’re lying on our sides.

“Mhm,” he mumbles, yawning against the pillow as I rest my face against his neck and burrow in. He does that little wiggle thing with his shoulders that he does when he’s adjusting to my body, like he’s trying to position himself perfectly against me.

“Simon,” I say carefully.

“Mhm?”

“I’ve been thinking,” I begin. It’s all I’ve been doing. I’ve been up since four, at least, thinking. “I wanted to ask you something.”

He stirs a little bit more and I can tell he’s beginning to wake up fully.

“Yeah, of course.” He wiggles back further into my arms, and it sends some horribly soft, warm feeling shooting down my spine. “What?”

I rub my thumb along the joint of his wrist and take a deep breath against his neck. Even hours after getting home, even after a shower, he still smells like the pub. Or maybe the pub smells like him. 

“I’ve got an announcement to make,” I say slowly, “and I want your help.”

And now he’s awake. I can feel awareness race through him. His body goes alert, his shoulders hunch.

“Really?” He breaks out of my arms and rolls over. “Really?”

I nod and hook my foot around his ankle. In the morning light, his eyes look even bluer. His bronze hair looks red against the white pillow case, and every single freckle and mole of his face stands out.

“Really,” I hum, reaching out so I can settle my hand on his hip. “And I think we’ll need to make a group chat with Shepard to do it.”


	17. CORRIDOR OF UNCERTAINTY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emotional rambles, anxious interior design and more of Simon's socks. Agatha Wellbelove gets the call up and a bathtub of wine. He's an old school kind of player. The truth will out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO CLOSE TO THE END WE CAN TASTE IT! Thanks everyone for the ride and reading and commenting! One heads up: it gets a little real in this chapter! Not in a bad way, just in a gay existential crisis way.
> 
> Much love and we hope you enjoy-  
> Ban & Bread

**BAZ**

“All I’m saying is that I’m very proud of you and all that, but it’s just kind of ridiculous that _of course_ you choose to do this the day I get the call up to the Lioness training camp next weekend.”

I close my eyes and lean back against the headrest of my car. I shouldn’t have let Wellbelove come. She’s been huffy the whole ride.

“We’ll get drinks this weekend to celebrate,” I say, taking a slow, measured breath so she won’t know I may be on the verge of hyperventilating.

“No we won’t, because the podcast will be out and then all this drama will happen.” Wellbelove pauses her frantic typing on her mobile. “That came out a lot worse than I meant for it to.”

“I’m sure it did.” I open my eyes and take another deep breath. We’re parked outside the Goat, and I can see the warmth and lights within, can see bodies moving around. It’s a Wednesday night so it’s not overly full, but still. It’s fuller than it used to be.

I’m not sure why I’m so nervous.

I never used to be like this. When I was younger I’d dive into the spotlight. I’d make a show of everything, I’d court attention and I was limitless with my ability to hide and deflect. I thought that getting older and wiser was meant to make us more capable of handling hardships, of learning to shake things off. But the older I get I feel like the weaker my heart becomes, and the longer I live and the more I learn, the harder it is to keep putting on the persona that nothing touches me.

Well. There’s nowhere to go but forward.

“Come along, Wellbelove,” I say, getting out of the car. “We’ve things to do.”

It’s recently rained. The cobblestone street and paved area outside the Goat are slick with rain, and the dimming, annoyed sky looks like it’s going to open up again any minute. Not exactly an auspicious start.

Wellbelove grabs my hand just before we go inside, stretches up on her toes and wraps her arms around my neck.

“I am proud of you,” she says, pecking me on the cheek. “And you owe me a drink for taking over my big day.”

“I’ll buy you a bathtub of wine,” I say, trying not to fidget. I don’t want her to know that I’m very close to feeling an emotion.

The doors to the Goat open and the noise and warmth spills out, along with Mordelia, the least auspicious omen a man could receive.

“Simon knows you’re here and he looks like he’s going to poo himself, so could you just hurry up and get inside?” she snaps. She’s got her hair pulled into a messy bun and she’s wearing a MumU shirt. I’ve never seen her wear a MumU shirt in my life.

“Shut up,” she says before I have a chance to even say anything. “Simon said it was part of the bloody waitressing uniform.”

I love that man.

No sooner have Wellbelove and I walked into the pub than Snow is on us. His hair is hassled, his cheeks pink and he’s clutching a tea towel for dear life.

“Baz!” he says, looking half-way to knocking me over. He pulls back before he actually reaches me. “Agatha.”

“Snow, please get Wellbelove here her drink of choice, on my tab, and keep them coming all night. She’s just found out she got called up to training camp.”

Snow’s face seems to short-circuit. I knew this news would distract him from whatever fretting he’d worked himself into.

“Holy shit!” he shouts, throwing his arms around Agatha and lifting her up into the air in a perfect rom-com spin. Her hands land on his shoulders and she tilts her head back to laugh, and it looks sickeningly lovely.

“Ah, congrats Aggie,” he says as he puts her down, squeezing her again. “Christ, two England team players.”

“Not yet. Just very likely,” she says, then throws me a dirty look which clearly says _that’s how you celebrate a friend’s success._

“Pen!” Snow calls over his shoulder, to where Bunce and Shepard are sitting at the bar, heads bent in serious conversation. “Fill Ags up! She’s going to the World Cup!”

Heads all over the pub pop up, and a round of cheers surrounds us. I don’t even know half these people. It seems unlikely they even know Wellbelove.

But then again, Snow has put a poster of her up above the bar, next to the MumU women’s side scarves. He’ll have his own little shrine to her here soon.

“Hey, can I talk to you in the back?” he says, leaning into my shoulder. “Real fast?”

I hope that “ _talk to me_ ” is a codeword for “ _kiss me senseless so I forget what I’m about to do._ ” But I suspect we only took a minor detour away from Snow’s fretting mother-hen act, and I’m about to bear the full brunt of his nervous affection.

“Lead the way.”

Snow sets off toward the kitchen and I trail along behind him. I’ve never been back here before; he says his cook and I would probably come to blows if left alone together too long. He’s probably right. The man looks like an Iggy Pop-wannabe and he’s atrociously rude to Snow. I’m the only one who gets to speak to him like that.

“Oi, Nico, get lost,” Snow says as we bang into the back.

“I’m in the middle of fucking dinner service, kid,” Nico argues.

“No one has ordered food in half an hour, take ten,” Snow growls back.

“My break isn’t for another forty.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, just go?” Snow snarls, tugging at his curls. He looks vaguely close to losing it. Somehow Snow may be more anxious about this than I am.

“Fine, fine.” Nico pulls his apron off and throws it down dangerously close to the stove and slams out the backdoor. Through the narrow crack I can see that it’s started raining again.

“Well that was sufficiently dramatic,” I say.

Snow lets out a long huff of air.

“Look, I wanted to say something,” he starts, tugging at his hair again. He stares at the wall behind my head. Oh, no. Oh, I think he’s practised something.

“I just want you to know that I’m in, whatever you do,” he says, his words coming fast. “And you don’t have to do this. Especially not for me. If you don’t want to do this, we can call it off, and I’ll support you. You don’t owe anybody this announcement.”

“Snow—”

“If you don’t want to make a big splash you could literally just like, live your life, and if we get pap’ed, so what? But I don’t want you to think that there’s pressure from me, because I’m fine, Baz. I’m so good, and I just want you to be happy—”

“Snow—”

“And it’s fucking bullshit that you have to do this at all. Christ, it’s like the _one thing_ I hate about football, they’re all so bloody—”

“Simon.”

He stops speaking, the wind taken out of his sails.

“Yeah?”

I step closer to him and cup his face. I’ve been dying to touch him. All I’ve wanted to do is touch him.

“Thank you.” I tilt his head up so I can kiss his forehead. “Ready to record the podcast?”

His forehead scrunches up.

“You sure?”

“I’m Baz Pitch,” I say. “I never do things by halves.”

***

“Friends, welcome back to Footpod!” Shepard says, leaning into his mic. “We have a small announcement this week. We’re going to be changing our name. I’m sick of getting mean tweets about. So if you’ve got suggestions, let us know.”

We’re in the upstairs of the Goat, seated in the long, dingy-looking gallery that runs the length of the whole top floor. I keep telling Snow to put more seating up here, because he could definitely use it. He keeps saying he’ll get around to it.

“We are joined, as ever, by our gracious host, Simon Snow, and the most beautiful man in England, Baz Pitch.”

Snow snorts into the mic.

“How are we feeling today, boys?” Shepard asks.

“I found a tenner on the pavement today,” Snow says, taking too large a sip of his lager. He’s nervous. “So pretty good. Oh! And Agatha Wellbelove is going to the World Cup.”

“Don’t jinx her,” I cut in. “She just got the call up to the training camp.” Wellbelove glares at me from the sofa in the corner where she’s sitting with Bunce.

“We’re very proud, of course,” I add belatedly.

“Oh, hey! Congrats to Agatha,” Shep says, throwing her a thumbs up. She does a bewildered thumbs up in return. “So, my dudes. I’ve been thinking a lot about that review from last week. You know the one that called us silly and said we talk about immature nonsense?”

“Keeps me up at night just thinking about it, Shep,” Snow chimes in.

“I shudder to recall,” I add, not because I want to speak, but because I have to keep up my schtick with Snow or else I may turn around and vomit.

“Well, it’s got me thinking that maybe our listeners are craving something a bit more...serious. Maybe they want a real discussion.”

Shepard is looking down at his iPad, clearly reading off the notes I sent him. There was no way I was leaving this to chance.

“So, Simon, I was thinking that this week maybe instead of a top-ten list, we could grill Baz on some real issues,” he continues. “Get into the meat of the footballer experience, as you will.”

“I think that’s a great idea,” Snow croaks. He takes another large sip of lager, licks his lips, and takes a deep breath. “Baz.”

“Snow.”

“I’ve always wondered,” he starts. I didn’t give Snow notes for this. I know he won’t fuck it up. I’d trust him with my life. “What’s the hardest thing about being a Premier League player?”

I let out a breath. I’m glad he didn’t just jump right into it, classic Simon Snow style. No, _“so, Baz, are you gay?_ ”

(I trust him, but only so much.)

“The spotlight, for sure,” I say. My hand clenches around my wine glass, but I don’t take a sip. “And the pressure.”

“To win?”

“To be perfect,” I correct. Snow smiles at me—an encouraging, wide smile, and I keep going. “There’s a lot of expectations put on footballers, and athletes in general, and it makes you very scared of messing up. You have to be available and connect with the fans, but you also have to hide anything you think they may not like.”

Under the table, Snow taps my foot.

“When you’re hiding part of yourself,” I continue, trying to think through the mental notes I made (because I’m a control freak, and could never leave this up to ab-libbing), “you can start to think that part of yourself is wrong, somehow. Or not good enough. And it can affect you. It can make you start to worry that if people knew that about you, they’d reject you. They’d cast you out.”

Everyone in the room is watching me very closely. I have to remind myself that I love attention.

“So you’re left with two routes, really.” I don’t look at Snow. I can’t look at Snow, so I look at the table. “You drive yourself to be perfect, so that maybe you can make up for your secret. And you never let anyone too close, just in case they find out.”

There’s a very long moment of silence, and then Snow’s hand finds mine.

This is why we’re recording up here. This is why we didn’t do the show in front of a crowd.

“That sounds...really shit. Do you want to keep hiding this part of you?” he asks. Squeezes my hand.

I look up into his eyes.

“No, I don’t.” His eyes are so blue. “I’m gay, and I’d like to stop hiding part of myself.”

Snow squeezes my hand again, and suddenly I feel the weight of a hand on my shoulder. Wellbelove. She’s snuck up behind us without me noticing. How embarrassingly sentimental.

“I’m gay,” I repeat, “and I’ve spent a lot of my career wondering if that means I was never meant to be a Premier League player.”

“Being gay and playing for the Premier League don’t have to cancel each other out,” Snow says immediately. A touch too defensively. I smile at him. It feels good to smile, like something tight around my ribs has cracked, and I can finally breathe deep.

“I suppose it’s not the League so much as the fans.” My words are coming faster, now. More confident. I can’t go back, so hang the anxiety.

 _I’ve come out. I’ve said it_. _Everyone will know_.

“There are gay football fans,” Snow argues.

“Of course there are. And there are gay footballers other than me. But you have to consider the fans. All the fans. Football so often gets boiled down to the sponsorships and the money and transfers and glamourous lifestyles….but I think I’m an old school type of player, and I believe in the traditional spirit of the game. I play for the game, and I play for the fans. And if people don’t want to see me play… then what’s the point?”

This was my father’s suggestion. He gave me a list of buzzwords to use, phrases that will inevitably be pulled out for clips. _Old school. Traditional. Talk about the fans. Subtly challenge them. Make them want to prove you wrong._

“I’d say the point is to play for yourself,” Simon argues, scrunching up his face. “Does football make you happy?”

I let go of his hand to take a sip of wine, and tap his foot again. An easy question.

“I’d say that football makes me happier than almost anything else in the world.”

  
  


**SIMON**

I feel like I could probably set something on fire. Or like, vibrate so hard my energy is gonna smash some windows and leave a crater.

It’s probably for the best that Baz and Agatha cleared off and went back to my house. If he were here I’d just be buzzing around and bugging him.

I am _not_ gonna be able to sleep tonight and Baz is going to be so pissed about it. Though I’d be surprised if he sleeps either. Maybe I can get Gareth to open the corner shop real fast for me when I get off work and I can get some eggs and shit and make us midnight breakfast. We could finally watch all those movies we’ve talked about watching.

“Annnddddd done,” Shep says, taking off his headphones and closing his laptop. He drums his fingers on top of it. “It’s really good, Simon. Really, really good.”

“Yeah?” I scrub down the counter top and try not to explode.

“Yeah. It’s gonna make history, my friend. Baz was great.”

“Baz is always great.”

“And you were good too. You asked great questions.” He pauses. “I cut that bit where you started yelling about homophobia, though. Seemed a little aggressive.”

“Eh,” I say, waving my hand toward him. I figured he was going to cut it, anyway. I got a bit carried away. But it was making Baz laugh, so.

Shep grins. “You two are a good team.”

I know we’re a good fucking team. I don’t need Shep to tell me that. But still. I feel a bit like I’m swelling up and I’m just gonna pop for how nervous and excited and fucking proud I am.

“I’m done, give me my money,” Mordelia says, popping up and dropping her order pad on the bar and ruining my warm fuzzy moment.

I pop open the register and pull out a few notes. I still can’t believe I agreed to give Mordelia a test run at the pub. But she did a decent-enough job, I guess. She can’t serve alcohol, but that’s probably for the best—I don’t think I’d trust her to, anyway.

“So how’d it go?” she asks, leaning against the bar to count the notes. I know she’s not talking about her trial run.

“Alright, I think.” I hassle my hair. “You think it’ll turn out alright?”

Mordelia frowns down at the notes and then holds out her hand. With a sign, I put another fiver in it.

“Doesn’t matter if it goes well, does it?” she says, folding the money and tucking it into her back pocket. “He had to do it. He was dead miserable for years, we could all see it.”

“Really?” My stomach clenches at the idea of it. Baz, dragging himself around, unhappy.

“Yup.” Mordelia props her arm on the bar and puts her chin on it. “He came home for Christmas last year and was so depressed that he barely spoke. Even Magnus noticed, starting bugging everyone about needing to hire Sherlock Holmes to figure out why Baz was so sad all the time.”

“That’s—” I want to say that’s sweet, but honestly it just kind of kills me. “I hope it gets better. I hope he gets happier.”

“Cheer up, Snow,” she says, propping herself up over the counter so she can reach and grab the back of my neck. She smacks her forehead into mine. “He already is.”

She jumps back down to the floor while my head is still buzzing from getting fucking headbanged. “See you tomorrow!”

“Fuck, that family’s weird,” I mutter, rubbing my head. Shepard is watching on with wide eyes.

“I kind of love them, though,” he says, his voice quiet with awe.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter. I try not to focus on the pain in my head as I start stacking chairs and closing up for the night. “Hey, Shep?”

He pauses while packing up his laptop into his bookbag. “Yeah?”

“Do us a favour, yeah? Don't tell me how it goes. Baz is going to be staying with me until his match this weekend and we agreed he’s not going to look at any of the news or feedback so it doesn’t mess with his head.” I flip off the electric sign in the window saying we’re open. “And if you tell me I won’t be able to lie to him if he asks.”

He probably wouldn't have to even ask. I swear to God, sometimes he can read my thoughts.

“Even if it’s good news?” Shep asks.

I try not to let Baz’s relentless pessimism creep in. I’m trying to stay optimistic about this.

“Even if it’s good news,” I agree.

“Alright, my man.” Shep puts his bookbag on and heads toward the door. “Hey, Simon? Sorry for this. But I just—I just gotta.”

Suddenly Shep pulls me into a really tight hug. It surprises me so much I laugh.

“Thanks, mate.” I clap him on the back and pull away, still holding him by the shoulders. “Seriously, thanks for everything.”

“It’s been an honour, my friend. Now go home and make sure Baz isn’t like… I don’t know, doing something stupid.”

***

Baz is doing something stupid.

“Where’s Agatha?” I drop my bookbag and stare around at my living room, feeling a bit knocked over. Of all the things I thought I’d come home to, it wasn’t this.

“She went home. She has training in the morning.”

Baz doesn’t even look at me, just keeps rearranging the books in front of him. He’s wearing my socks.

“Did she, er, did she help with this?” Carefully, I set down the groceries I was able to bug off of Gareth. He was pissed, but he knew it was for a good cause. It’s not like he was asleep anyway.

“Hmm?” Baz asks, focused on the books. I think he’s sorting them alphabetically. “Oh. No, I did this after she left.”

Baz has completely rearranged my living room. The TV is in a different place, the sofa is up under the windows, the bookshelves are now near the door to the kitchen.

It’s kind of nice, actually. It was a bit cramped before, actually. I don’t think I ever noticed. And he’s found spots for all the crap I’ve accumulated. He even hung up the old black and white photo of The Cloisters that Ebb gave me for Christmas years ago.

“Alright.” I try not to laugh, but. Well. If interior design is what’s going to keep Baz sane, then I figure he can rearrange my house to his heart’s content. “Want to do the bedroom next?”

Davey is laying on the sofa, his eyes following Baz back and forth. I wonder if he’s been overseeing this, or if he and Baz had a stern conversation and he got banished to the sofa.

“Already did. I cleaned out your closet as well,” Baz says, frowning at something. “Why do you have so many books? I’ve never seen you read.”

“They were Ebb’s,” I say, picking up the groceries again. I should probably just leave him to this. It’s probably more dangerous if I try to help. “Please don’t—er, please don’t get rid of any of them.”

He pauses at that and finally looks up.

“Simon, I would never throw away books.” He holds one up. “Can I borrow this?”

Something warm and soft and fucking fond is pooling in my stomach.

“Borrow any of them. Read 'em all, if you want.” It’s what Ebb would want, I think. For the books to be loved. Even better if they’re loved by someone I love.

Baz puts the book aside, and I watch him pick up a few more and put those on the stack as well.

I wish I was good at words and had the ability to tell him what this means to me and how I feel. I wish I could make sure he knows that if everything falls apart, he’s always going to be safe here, in my home, wearing my socks. It’s a small life, it’s nothing compared to what he could have, but I’d give it all to him. In a heartbeat.

“Want breakfast?” I ask instead.

Baz flips over a book and looks at the back summary, then makes a face. Fuck if I know what he’s just read. Ebb had weird taste.

“It’s midnight,” he says.

“Yup. Want breakfast?”

Baz puts down the books and stands up. He’s wearing my hoodie too. And my boxers. That buzzing feeling under my skin comes back. I don’t think he could make it any clearer that he’s in. He may not have done the rambling speech like I did, may not have tripped over his words and made a mess of shit.

Instead he’s just wearing my clothes. Rearranging my house. Making himself at home in my life.

“Breakfast sounds perfect,” he says, stepping over the book stack. “I’ll make coffee.”


	18. PITCH INVASION

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon gets car sick, Baz gets uncomfortably sentimental. Getting kidnapped, kissing boots, meeting the family and Twitter notifications. It's the end of the line. Baby, you're a Pitch man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends! This is it. This is the end of the fic as we know it, and we feel just wow overwhelmed.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has read, commented, screamed and made art. It's been a ride! Sorry for the sentimental drivel.
> 
> Some notes before closing: Stonewall FC is a real football club, football is EXTREMELY gay, and you should listen to the   
>  [**Mummer's FC playlist**](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7eN5urt3480HkIfvG4fHhN?si=uagmj50mRlukePKbZDeZvA) on Spotify.
> 
> xx - bad to the brad, god-is-basic, banshee bread, banana, ban & anna

**SIMON**

The pub is packed.

The match doesn’t start for a few hours, but we’ve been filling up all morning, almost since we opened. I feel like half the village, at least, is here, along with all sorts of folk I’ve never seen before.

That’s been happening more and more since we started the podcast. Local folk will come watch us record, and then more people drive in to watch Baz’s matches, people who don’t live anywhere around here. But it’s never been like this. And I know it’s because of the episode.

 _The Coming Out Episode_ is what Shep titled it. Baz nearly shit himself when he saw that. We were sitting in the glass extension, drinking coffee, and I pulled it up on my mobile so we could listen.

“No point burying the lede, I suppose,” he said in that nasty voice he uses when he’s uncomfortable. He got up to go make another cup of coffee then, and didn’t come back for another half hour. It took us nearly two hours to get through it, because Baz kept interrupting and making comments, and then when it was done he just stood up, collected our mugs and went to wash dishes.

I think Shep was right, though. I think the episode was great. Other people had to have thought so as well. They _have to_.

We still haven’t looked online to see what people are saying, but I feel like a packed pub has to be a good sign, right? People wouldn’t show up just to protest him or jeer at him or anything.

Would they?

“Anything I can do to help?” Keris asks, popping up at my elbow.

“Oh, er, not right now.” I squint out at the crowd. “Though if my waitress doesn’t show up soon I may need to put in a sub.”

“I told you I’d help,” Pen says, nudging by me with an arm full of clean glasses. “Put Shep and I to work.”

“No offence, but I dunno if I trust Shep.” 

“That stings, Simon,” Shep says, placing a hand on his heart. “That really stings.”

I finish setting things up and then go to the far corner of the pub and pull out my phone and get ready to open Twitter. It’s time, I reckon. Time to find out what’s waiting for him.

I’ve been ignoring the news and everything, and it hasn't been hard. Not for me, at least. I’m good at just shutting things out and deciding to never think about them. But it’s been driving Baz crazy; he’s been absolutely relentless. He’s been training and running and working out nonstop since the podcast came out on Thursday morning. He’s been full of fucking energy.

Last night he was supposed to stay in Mummers and get some rest for the game today, but instead he showed up at two a.m. and nearly jumped me when I opened the door. Literally _picked me up_ before he’d barely gotten past the threshold. He didn’t seem to care that I was still half asleep, just picked me up and pressed me into the wall.

My ears get hot just thinking about it. Him kissing my neck, his voice low. _I need you._

Safe to say I got more awake.

But then he was gone when I woke up this morning. Davey had been fed and let out, my dishes done, coffee made. There’s a real chance that he didn’t even sleep at all. He could have gotten up the second I rolled over and passed out. I hope he slept. I hope he got some sleep.

And I wish he’d stayed. I could’ve hugged him goodbye or said something nice. He should have heard something nice from me before facing today.

Taking a deep breath, I tap on the Twitter icon. I’ve got….just millions of notifications. So many notifications.

“SIMON SNOW,” someone shouts from the doorway. I startle, nearly dropping my mobile. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Mordelia is standing there, hands on her hips, glaring at me.

“Er, working?” I ask, shoving my mobile away. “You should be too, by the way.”

“Mordy, where is he? We really need to get going—” Agatha walks into the pub and nearly runs into Mordelia’s back. “Simon, why are you just standing there? Where’s your coat?”

“Er—”

Mordelia and Agatha’s faces grow dark at the same time.

“No,” Agatha says, shaking her head. “No way, you are not missing this match. Go get your coat and get in the car.”

“Ags, I can’t just leave—” I start, but Pen and Shep have popped up behind me.

“Yes, you can,” Penny says, starting to shove me. Shepard hands me a jacket. “We have this. Go.”

“Were you really not going to come?” Mordelia screeches. God, her voice is so loud. “What kind of friend are you?”

“I can’t leave the pub—”

“ _Go_ ,” Penny, Shep, Agatha and Mordelia shout at the same time. I think Keris and Gareth may have gotten in on it too.

“Please don’t burn it down,” I say, turning to Shepard. “Seriously. Like, let Penny run everything, please, don’t—”

“I’m not as incapable as you seem to think I am,” Shep says with a smile. “It’ll be fine. We’ll take good care of your baby. Go.”

“But—”

“Oh Jesus Christ,” Mordelia says, wrapping her forearm around my throat and dragging me backward. “Get in the car, Snow.”

I’m sputtering and I can’t really breathe. This is probably what it feels like to be kidnapped.

It’s probably easier to just go along. Dunno if I want to fight a 17 year-old girl in the middle of my pub. Dunno if I could.

***

I always get sick in the backseat.

Mordella put bagsies on the front and I didn’t want to fight her for it, so I’m shoved in the cramped backseat of Agatha’s tiny car, zipping down the country lanes as we head toward Mummers. Pretty sure she came so close to a stone wall a few moments ago that I could nearly taste it.

Closing my eyes, I lean my head against the window and let Mordelia and Aggie’s chatter wash over me.

The two of them are in the front, talking nonstop—apparently there was a whole plan for how today was going to go, and Mr. Grimm had drawn up timetables and secured tickets for everyone, except no one told me. Dunno if Baz knew or if he forgot or what. But we hadn’t talked about me coming at all.

Christ, I’m a div. We shouldn’t have had to.

“Oh my God, could you _be_ any bloody slower!” Agatha shouts, tapping her horn. “You’re parking a car, not doing surgery!”

“Just go around him,” Mordelia says. “You’re not going to get a space here.”

“Ugh, fine.” I feel the car lurch as we take off at speed again. “I’m just going to park at the training centre. We’ll just have to walk a bit.”

“Fine with me,” I say weakly. I feel like I’m gonna hurl.

The car slams to a stop a few moments later and I put my head between my knees to breath deep before opening my eyes.

“Simon, come on!” Mordelia shouts from outside my door. She bangs on the window. “Come on, come on!”

“Keep your hooves on,” I mutter, opening the door and pulling myself out of the cramped backseat. I think I may have left a kidney back there.

The cold air feels good on my face, and I take another deep, calming breath. It’ll be fine. It’ll be completely fine. This will be okay—

“What are you wearing?” I ask, my jaw dropping open as I stare at Agatha and Mordelia, who are pulling on matching rainbow MumU shirts.

“Trixie from my team made them,” Agatha says, adjusting the shirt. “The whole women’s side is wearing one, I got one for Mordelia.” 

“It’s very bright,” Mordelia says, her voice flat and annoyed as she pulls at her shirt. “I didn’t realise it’d be so bright.”

She bends over to pull her hair back up into a ponytail and that’s when I see the name on the back.

PITCH.

“Guys.” My voice gets louder. “Guys! This is brilliant!” Excitement starts to build up inside my stomach, a really different kind of buzzy nausea. “Oh, he’s gonna love this. That was brilliant of you. Just, wow.”

Agatha and Mordelia are staring at me with the same expression, the one basically saying I’m a weirdo.

“I might have an extra if you want….” Agatha says.

“Nah, that’s alright,” I say, shaking my head. I dunno if I would want to wear a rainbow shirt. It’s one thing for these two to do it—supporting Baz and all—but it would seem a bit different coming from me. I guess. I dunno. Dunno if it would be too much of a declaration.

Declaration of what, I dunno. But I’m not sure I’m ready to do that just yet. I’m still….figuring it out, I guess. Baz has asked me before, just direct, _are you gay? Are you bi? What are you?_ And I didn’t really know how to say that I don’t know, yet. That the only label that feels comfortable is _yours_.

Definitely did not say that, though.

“Stop looking like that, Snow,” Mordelia says, pulling her jacket back on. “Now c’mon, we’ve got to go.”

Dunno what my face looks like. Terrified to ask.

I let them push me through the training centre car park and out toward the street, where I can hear people walking and shouting. We’re not far from The Cloisters—maybe a five, ten minute walk—but I’ve never had to park this far out for one of their matches before.

No parking is good, right? That means lots of people are coming, right?

Suddenly, we turn a corner into a complete fucking madhouse.

There’s people _everywhere_ . The streets are packed with a sea of fans heading towards the stadium, people shouting and laughing. The pubs and restaurants along the way look near to bursting, and there’s flags _everywhere_.

Some folk have taken rainbow flags and put the MumU logo on. Others have thrown glitter on the MumU flag. A group of people walking ahead of us are all wearing matching shirts that say _STONEWALL F.C._ on the back.

I just stop walking.

“Holy shit,” I whisper, staring around. It’s—it’s—well— “Holy shit.”

“Holy shit indeed,” Mordelia says, slapping my back. “You should have brought a flag or something.”

“I haven’t got a flag,” I say weakly, staring around. When Baz sees this, he’s going to cry.

I sort of want a flag.

***

It’s even crazier inside of the stadium. Ags steers us around the concessions—doesn’t even stop to let me get beer or anything—and takes us down these steps I’ve never been down before, the ones that lead to the nice box seats.

(Not that anything at The Cloisters is _nice_ , really. It’s an old stadium. The fancy seats are just closer and slightly bigger than everything else.)

The Grimms are in there already—Mr. and Mrs. Grimm and the rest of the kids—along with a few official-looking people I don’t know, and a terrifying woman who has got to be Fiona.

“You,” she hisses, spinning on me. Her eyes are narrowed to slits. She’s just about as intimidating as Baz described her. This isn’t how I wanted to meet her. I’d planned to meet her at the pub so I could ply her with booze and make her like me.

“Er, me?” I say, shaking Mr. Grimm’s hand awkwardly and waving at Mrs. Grimm. They know that Baz and I are….something. I’ve never been introduced as a boyfriend or a partner or anything whenever he’s dragged me around for lunch. But Mrs. Grimm invited me to Christmas lunch at their house, so I think she’s figured something out.

“You’re the one that made him do this fucking circus,” Fiona says, rounding on me. She’s walking real close, like she’s trying to back me into the wall.

“Er, no?” I stand my ground and shake my head. “This is all him. I had nothing to do with this.”

“If this backfires on him, I will gut you,” Fiona hisses. Next to her, Mr. Grimm sighs, like this is just her being tiresome and not threatening my fucking life.

“No offence, but have you looked around?” I ask her, throwing my arms out. People are taking their seats and already getting rowdy, the whole stadium a pulsing wave of green and purple and rainbow. Everywhere I look there are Pitch shirts and flags. I’ve never seen a MumU match this full.

“I caught the sideshow act, thanks,” Fiona says. “Fan presence at one match doesn’t mean he’s in the clear.” She takes a seat and props her feet up on the railing. “I mean it. I’ll gut you.”

Baz is making a lot of sense to me now.

Agatha rolls her eyes and takes her seat, and I settle in between her and Mordelia.

Seems like everywhere I look there something new to see. More groups of folk with homemade shirts. More flags, more scarves. It looks like a group of drag queens have camped out in the neutral zone, and even the away supporters section has more than a few rainbows.

I guess… I guess we were so worried about what this will mean for him, that we forgot what this would mean for other people. Baz said everyone would care, he said people would pay attention, but I’m not sure if either of us really considered _who_ would pay attention.

Everyone was so busy worrying about the fans that I think we all sort of….forgot about the fans.

“Stop worrying,” Mordelia says, leaning over to flick me in the eye. “He’ll be fine.”

I lean back in my seat and keep looking out at the stadium, just chock full of people who love Baz almost as much as I do.

“Nah,” I say, grinning. I can’t stop grinning. “He’s gonna be bloody brilliant.”

**BAZ**

I will not vomit. 

I have never vomited on the pitch before, and today will not be that day. And I will especially not puke in the dressing room like some first season newbie.

Turning away from my team, I stretch my arms. Pull my leg up against the wall and stretch it out. I nearly hit elbows with Minotaur, our physio, who just grunts at me and keeps preparing magic sponges.

Snow was horrified when I showed him a photo of the MumU dressing room. I think he expected some large, spacious cavern of luxury; not a square room with therapy tables squeezed in a corner and cases of Volvic stacked up next to disorderly piles of boots and kit.

What I’d give for a large dressing room today, so I could stay in my own corner in relative quiet, instead of wondering if everyone is watching me. They aren’t. I know they aren’t.

My teammates have all been resolutely acting like nothing at all has happened, which I’m going to take as them being supportive. If they weren’t, I’d have heard about it—they gave me an earful when I came back from my injury time. Their silence is a good thing, I remind myself.

They’re good men.

Sitting down, I pull off my training boots and reach for my match boots. I pause over the blue ones. I’ve always worn the blue ones and they’re well worn-in. They’re reliable boots.

But when I got sent the white ones as part of the new sponsor package, Simon was fucking around and kissed them. I don’t even remember why he did, except that he’s ridiculous and stupid and treats football like a religion.

He didn’t kiss me this morning. He would have, if I hadn’t left before dawn. If I’d stayed, I could have woken up with him and he would have kissed me, and likely said something stupid and soft. He would have likely made me breakfast.

I put back the blue boots and pull on the white ones before I can berate myself for being superstitious.

Taking a deep breath, I stand up and adjust my socks. There’s a commotion behind me, and I turn to see one of my teammates swearing at his mobile. A few other men huddle around him to stare at the phone and talk in hushed voices. A few of them glance over their shoulder at me.

The pit in my stomach starts to grow.

I want to know what they’re staring at. Probably Twitter. Twitter has been ridiculous, lately. I had to end up deleting the app from my phone because the notifications wouldn’t stop. Instagram has been the same, as well as my email. I had to delete both of those apps as well, because I kept getting up in the middle of the night to sit on the toilet and read the articles I was being linked to.

Technically Snow and I made a pact that we weren’t going to read the news or look at the internet, so that I wouldn’t get in my head before the match. I know he hasn’t—he can never lie to me, I can always tell. But I’m good at lying. Snow has no idea.

The feedback has been mixed. Which is all I could hope for, really. But the articles I’ve found have been atrocious. Exactly what I expected. Think pieces about how this will impact my team. Questions of _why now_? Shitty, quippy Tweets about how this will distract from the game.

One of my teammates pulls out his own mobile and starts laughing. He looks up at me and grins.

I don’t know how to read a grin. I don’t know if he’s mocking me or not. I can’t imagine what he would possibly find so funny on his phone that could be good.

I wish I could text Simon, but I don’t have my phone. I left it in my bag, because we’re not meant to have them out before games, and I follow the rules. (Partially. I did look earlier to see if Simon had texted me. He hadn’t, but Paul from Newcastle had sent a brief text that just said _alright, mate?_ )

I push my way through my teammates and head to the toilet block. We’ve only moments before the game, and I have never, not even at the World Cup, allowed myself to get psyched out before a match. Taking a deep breath, I try to calm myself. I’m a good player. No—I’m a _brilliant_ player. I’m better than the rest of my team, and nothing, no media circus or homophobia will stop me from proving that.

Proving them wrong.

And anyway, I’m being ridiculous. Dev would say I’m being egotistical, thinking the world revolves around me. I’ve done it. I’ve done the impossible, and it hasn’t been as bad as I expected. No one has jumped me or laid in wait to shout things at me. I caught a few paparazzi outside my house the other day, but I’ve been alternating between Snow and Wellbelove’s house, so that was easy enough to avoid.

Maybe if I just go out there and play well today and don’t acknowledge anything, it will be fine. It’ll die down.

Mac calls the team together to head to the tunnel.

It’s time to go.

***

I’ve always loved the sound of the tunnel, listening to the announcers and waiting with my teammates to walk on. Maybe it’s because my favourite part of the matches is when I get to the pitch, when I step onto the green and my whole world narrows. I know what to do on the pitch. On the pitch I’m the king.

The crowd is loud today—which has to be a good thing, surely—and my teammates are jumping up and down and laughing, psyching each other up. Someone slaps me on the back as they walk by, and more of my teammates are looking at me. 

Fine. They can look all they want. I’m an unusually beautiful specimen of man. Enjoy the fucking sight.

I stand quietly at the back, waiting for the walk on music. If I can just get to the pitch, I’ll be fine. Once I get to the ball, I dare them to hate me.

“Pitch,” Mac calls, walking up to me. He’s a tall man, paunchy and older-looking than he is, but he’s a decent enough manager. He used to play for the team, back before we had any hope of going up the tables. He’s here for the club—not the glory.

I like Mac.

“You’re gonna play well today, right brov?” He’s got that thick northern accent and sometimes the way he speaks makes me want to roll my eyes.

“Always do,” I say, staring straight ahead.

“That’s what I like to hear.” Mac claps me on the shoulder and pauses for a moment, like he’s searching for his words. “You’re a good player. Don’t focus on the distractions. Keep your head on the pitch, yeah? And…” he pauses again. “Play for yourself today, alright?”

I briefly meet his eye. He looks sincere, and slightly embarrassed by it.

“Alright,” I say, giving him a firm nod. Christ, this is uncomfortably sentimental.

“Atta boy.” He slaps me on the shoulder again and then heads off toward the mouth of the tunnel, just as our walk-on song begins.

The crowd begins to scream.

This has to be good. A happy crowd is always good, it’s the basic law of football. If you’ve got an excited crowd, you’ve got an excited team. They wouldn’t cheer if they hated us.

My feet are moving, carrying me slowly toward the mouth of the tunnel. I pick my head up. Loosen my gait. A reporter once said I had the most confident walk-on in football. I don’t intend today to be any different.

The cold shadows of the tunnel disappear in favour of the bright blue sky and perfect green, and I walk out into a sea of colour.

I’m surrounded by sounds and colour and people. The stands are packed—more than I’ve almost ever seen them—and rainbow flags are everywhere. There are rainbows _everywhere_.

I keep walking, my feet moving because stopping isn’t an option, I have to keep moving, listening as the announcer reads off the team roster. There’s noise. There’s so much noise. And then—

 _“Number 9, Basiltooooonnnn Pitch!_ ”

If the stadium was loud before, it’s nothing compared to the wall of sound that hits me.

I stop walking. There’s no possible way that my legs are going to continue to work, because I’m weak and pathetic, because I’m embarrassingly emotional. 

This can’t be real. I’m still concussed. The past few months have been hallucinations. Simon, the podcast, coming out, standing here on the middle of the Pitch, surrounded by screaming football fans.

It’s not real. This doesn’t happen.

This doesn’t happen to me.

The sound and shouts around me begin to change and solidify, and it takes me a moment to realise what everyone is saying. What everyone is _singing_.

 _“How does it feel to be one of the beautiful people?_ ”

Someone’s snuck a drum in, the beat rounding out fast and sharp as recognition curls in my stomach. Near me, I hear laughter. My teammates, I realise, standing just behind me, turning in circles to stare out at the crowd and laugh.

 _“Baby you’re a Pitch man!_ ”

Someone slaps me on the back—our keeper, maybe? Or one of our useless defencemen—and there’s more laughter as they keep walking.

I just stand there, slowly turning so I can take in all the The Cloisters, on their feet, singing.

_“Baby you’re a Pitch man!”_

I’m going to cry. I’m going to cry in the middle of the pitch, and I don’t think I can stop it.

“ _Baby, you’re a Pitch man, too!_ ”

I stop turning, my eyes set on the box where my family always sits. Even across the pitch, I can see them. My parents, Mordelia, Agatha, and—

Up front, wearing my shirt—not my official merchandise shirt, but _my shirt_ , which I know he stole out of my bag—Simon.

He’s beaming, smiling even as he sings, his hands over his head as he claps along with the beat that the rest of the stadium has going. If this moment was the last second I ever got to live, I’d be okay with it. If my entire life and whole world narrowed to this, standing on the perfect green Pitch, watching Simon Snow sing at me with an entire stadium of supporters as backup, I’d die happy.

I’d die lucky.

Without thinking—without worrying about the photos or the consequences or the headlines—I put my hand over my heart for a moment, and then point right at him.

His smile is brighter than any flag in the stadium when I turn away and jog to catch up with my teammates.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Any Given Sunday](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29303277) by [tbazzsnow (Artescapri)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow)




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